Untouchable
by bookgodess15
Summary: Chase has a secret. Fortunately, he's a very good liar. HouseChase
1. A Storm Is Coming

**Untouchable**

**Chapter 1  
**_(A Storm Is Coming)_

House felt as if his feet plodding up the steps to the guillotine that would sever his head, like he was on a death march to the gates of hell. He kept his eyes on the ground, hating everything that was running through his mind. He hated this whole situation with such a sickening fury that he couldn't see straight. There were certain standards, certain parallels that the world had to follow, because when they failed shit like this happened. Everything in his life depended on those lone principals. You didn't fucking _mess_ with them.

"It's been a week," Cuddy said in a controlled voice as he stepped through the door. Her words were so carefully pronounced that House could tell she hated this as much as he did—Cuddy just didn't have the balls to stand up and do something about it. He was alone in this fight.

"Actually, it's been over a week," he responded, his first instinct to say something witty. "Where have you guys been?" House looked up from the ground to face the two people standing behind his desk. His eyes avoided the hulking mass that was the driving force behind all this, the one playing puppeteer from behind the scenes and uprooting the very foundations of his life. Instead, he locked eyes with Cuddy and silently pleaded for a reprieve. Just for this one time, let her find it in herself to stand out against the world and do what was right instead of what would bring in the money.

Cuddy looked away. "Who is it?" she asked, staring at the spot just to the right of him determinedly.

House looked back down at the ground. He'd been deserted. "Cameron," he muttered.

Cuddy opened her mouth to say something, but a deeper voice cut her off before a sound could leave her throat.

"No—Cameron stays. Pick someone else," Vogler said, speaking for the first time.

House stared at him, incredulous. He'd just had the rug pulled out from under his feet again. Desperate to regain his ground, he disputed, scowling. "The deal was—"

"Deal's changed," Vogler said coolly. "Pick someone else."

"No," House said stubbornly, refusing to lose this battle. Dammit, it was his turn to get his way.

"Pick someone else," Vogler said slowly, deliberately, "or it'll be the whole department." Then he walked out of the room, casting a dark shadow over House's face as he passed. In the background, Cuddy looked baffled, but House's mind was already turning and twisting this puzzle over. The pieces were adding up to something he didn't want to consider.

oOo

"Slightly enlarged lymph node in his left armpit," Wilson observed, staring at the films with a resignedly studious gaze. He hated analyzing full body scans almost as much as House did.

"How slightly?" House asked, not bothering to join in examining the scan results. If his team didn't catch anything then he would check it out, but most of the time, someone picked up on it before House actually had to get down and do the nitty-gritty dirty work.

Wilson squinted slightly. "Quarter mil."

"Lymphoma?" Cuddy's voice suddenly suggested, and House looked up.

"Sure," he said sardonically, "Or he's had a cold in the last six months." Why the hell was Cuddy here? He looked over to Cameron, and it dawned. "What, you've got her on speed dial?" he asked.

Cameron just stared at him in confusion.

"I just follow the scent of arrogance," Cuddy told him dryly, taking a few steps closer to the results of the full body scan so that she could see it better and completely missing the face House was pulling.

Chase spoke up suddenly, as if to divert an argument. "Another slightly enlarged node over here," he said, pointing with his finger. "Two more in his neck and one in his groin."

"And there's a cyst in his liver," Wilson added with a frown.

"Looks complex," Cameron said, peering at it through her glasses. "Central necrosis?"

House rolled his eyes. "Spontaneous bleeding; it's benign. I was rooting for a really cool tumor—instead, we're stuck with this crap."

"Doesn't matter," Cuddy said. "Once you find them, you have to check them."

"Well, knock yourselves out," House said, shrugging. He certainly wasn't going to be bothered with biopsying miniscule, benign tumors that would tell him nothing. Seeing that his team was making no fast moves to exit the room, he opened his mouth and was about to tell them to shoo when his eyes caught sight of Vogler standing in the doorway. He scowled. What did he want _now_?

"I just saw Senator Wright," Vogler began, leaning against the doorframe casually.

_Well, shit_, House thought.

"He looks like hell. That sushi must have been a lot worse than you thought," Vogler said with a trace of smugness, folding his arms over his chest.

"Mr. Vogler, would you like a free whole body scan?" House asked pleasantly, his eyes narrowing. "A man of your stature should get himself checked out at least three times a year."

Vogler ignored his comment and ventured into the room, brushing past the others as if they didn't exist. "Here's a few key points I want you to cover during your speech." He thrust a file into House's hands.

House opened the file, flipped through it for a second, and then looked up at Vogler in disbelief. "Fourteen pages," he said incredulously. "The audience will be comatose by paragraph two."

Vogler shrugged and said, "Throw in a joke." And then he was gone, letting the door swing shut by itself and leaving House feeling as if he'd just been strung from a tree by his ankles.

Scrambling to gain some semblance of control over the situation, he quickly looked over to his team and centered in on Cameron. "Dr. Cameron. We need to talk."

"What?" Cameron said, staring at him in confusion. She drew in her bottom lip so that she could bite it, and House wondered if she was purposely trying to look pathetic.

"You. Me. Talking. _Now_," House said shortly, standing up and limping over to the door. "The rest of you get on those fascinating lymph nodes."

Cameron followed him, her heels clicking rapidly and she hurried to catch up with him. House waited until she was walking next to him and then sneezed loudly. Someone passing him muttered a "bless you," but Cameron wasn't fooled by his fake sneeze.

"What was that for?" she asked. Maybe Cameron was catching on to the fact that he wasn't a godly being who really cared, deep down, about the human race.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm allergic to bullshit."

"What are you talking about?" Cameron asked. "Are you making insinuations that I'm—"

"These aren't insinuations," House interrupted. "They're facts."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cameron said.

House was unimpressed at how poorly she was attempting to lie her way out of this. "How do you see this ending?" he said, barging on and hoping to catch Cameron off guard.

"How do I see what ending?" Cameron asked furiously.

"You and Vogler," House said, raising his eyebrows. "Getting the groove on."

"I'm not having _sex_ with Vogler," Cameron said, revolted. "House—"

"Well, of course you're not," House retorted. "Why would you do that? I mean, it's not like you're feeding him information about what we're doing, keeping tabs on all us for him."

Cameron stared at him. "Why would I do that?" she asked. 'Of all people, House, I'd think that I would be last on your list to suspect!"

"Right. And you haven't been feeding him information? About bulimic-woman? About the Senator?" House snorted. "I've heard better lies from Chase."

"I haven't!" Cameron protested. "That's ridiculous. I would never do that!"

"Then why wasn't I allowed to fire you?" House asked, watching as Cameron's jaw dropped and her mouth worked soundlessly.

"You—I was the one you picked?" she finally said, sounding utterly stunned. "You were going to _fire_ me? Why?"

House shrugged. "Who did you think I was going to pick? I don't see why you care. Obviously, you're safe no matter who I want to give the sack to."

"I haven't been trading information to Vogler!" Cameron protested. "Honest—why would I lie?"

"Because you're afraid of what I'll do when you admit it," House said bluntly. "And I don't see why. I can't fire you, so you have no reason to fear me, and therefore no reason to lie to me. You told Cuddy where I was. You told Vogler what I was doing."

"No I didn't!" Cameron cried. "House—"

"Save it," House cut her off, abruptly deciding that he was finished with her. "Go give Vogler a blowjob and get out of my sight."

oOo

"She could be telling the truth."

House snorted and set another pile of old JAMA journals on his desk to be stuffed into his locker. They had been rooming with his collection of DVDs and video games for too long, and one of the two was going to have to go. The idea of the long walk to the locker rooms would be enough to convince him that he had better things to do than read medical journals.

"Okay," Wilson said slowly, correctly interpreting House's silence. "Well, it's still a possibility. And Vogler could be trying to mess with your head."

House frowned, entertaining the possibility for a brief second. "Nah. Doesn't make any sense—what's Vogler got to gain? All it means is that I have to pick someone else."

"And he gets the pleasure of watching you interrogate your staff and look over your shoulder every other minute," Wilson added, picking up the journal that House had set down and frowning at the cover in confusion. "Which you wouldn't have to do if you did everything the _legal_ way for a change. Why do have journals here from three years ago?"

"It's not about legal and illegal," House said, snatching the journal from Wilson's hands before he could open it and putting back on the steadily growing pile on his desk. "It's about what's going to get me answers."

"Or what's going to keep you employed," Wilson reminded him with a careful reproach. He eyed House's red ball, wondering whether he would be allowed to pick it up and play with it. Judging by House's mood and the way that he'd just had the journal so rudely taken away from him, he probably wouldn't. So instead he picked up a paperclip from underneath a haphazard stack of papers and began untwisting it.

"I'm giving that stupid speech, aren't I?" House whined, reaching over the desk and stealing the paperclip from Wilson's fingers and throwing it in the trash. "I'm selling my soul."

Wilson sat back in his chair and sighed in exasperation, casting his eyes towards the ceiling. "Just a little piece. And you're getting something in return."

"I said I was selling it; I didn't say I was giving it away," House told him with the roll of his eyes. "That would be immoral. And stupid. All they've done is added an antacid." He glanced at the file folder that Vogler had handed him earlier, containing all fourteen pages of 'points' he was supposed to be covering and picked it up. Then he dropped it back down on the desk.

"Does it work?" Wilson asked, knowing by now that if he reached for the file he would be swatted away.

"That's not the point," House said, irritated that Wilson had somewhat valid reasoning.

"Of course it's the point!" Wilson said, his voice steadily patient, as if he'd known all along that he'd be having this conversation. "He's not asking you to lie, he's not asking you to do something illegal—"

"He's not _asking_ me to do anything," House pointed out with a scowl.

"He's not _ordering_ you," Wilson refuted, still keeping his voice calm. This was a volatile discussion and could escalate into an argument at any second. "He gave you a choice. You chose your staff. I know this isn't easy for you—you'll suffer, Vicodin sales in New Jersey will triple... But you're doing a good thing."

House made a face at him, and Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Only you could feel like crap for doing something good," Wilson sighed.

House opened his mouth, probably to make a witty comment that threw everything Wilson had just said back in his face, but at that moment Chase and Foreman entered, the latter carrying the test results in his hand. They were closely trailed by Cuddy, who came in not ten steps behind them.

"Kidney and liver cysts are both benign, and lymph nodes all came back clean," Foreman said, coming up to House's desk.

He seized one of the images out of Foreman's hands. "His left armpit node has antibodies for CB 11," House said.

Wilson quickly jumped into the diagnosis session. "Not enough to indicate lymphoma."

"We never tested for hairy-cell leukemia," House mused as he stared at the films, his eyes traveling the digestive system and landing on the spleen. His eyes narrowed as he studied it even more intensely.

"No, but we would have picked it up somewhere besides one lymph node," Wilson said pointlessly, because House was stuck on his theory and wouldn't be budging until he had solid proof that he was wrong.

"And his spleen isn't enlarged," Chase reasoned. "If—"

"Size isn't everything," House said. Wilson could have sworn he saw Chase suppress a snort. "The spleen is the mother lode for hairy-cells. Let's cut it open."

"You can't biopsy his spleen," Chase protested immediately. "It'll bleed like—"

"In the Senator's condition, a spleen biopsy could easily cause sepsis and kill him!" Cuddy interrupted, scandalized.

House moaned dramatically. "Why do you do this to me?" he asked in a long-suffering tone. "Now, if I kill him, I can't tell the judge I had no idea of the risks involved!" He shoved the films back to Foreman and began walking back to his desk.

"His brain's turning into mush and he's at risk for more infections," Foreman spoke up, making House pause mid-stride and turn around, his curiosity piqued. "So we have to do it."

House grinned widely and Wilson sighed.

"See—that'll sound better in court," House said, plopping back down in his chair and reaching over to turn on his iPod. "Okay, go tell our human pincushion we'll be sticking him one more time."

oOo

Sitting before this audience, House felt eyes boring into him. His ears buzzed with the whispers of people who were completely dumbfounded that the cantankerous Dr. House was doing something for the new Chairman of the Board. His palms felt sweaty. This wasn't on his terms. He didn't _want_ to be here; he didn't want to be Vogler's lapdog and give a damned speech about some overpriced and under-efficient drug, and most of all, he didn't want to see his team's faces as he gave his speech. Despite everything, there was something to leading them and showing them what it was like to be unafraid of doing it your way. This was destroying everything that he'd built up.

The crowd suddenly rippled with laughter, and the next thing House knew, Vogler was turning around with a sweeping gesture and presenting him to the audience. House stood up and slowly made his way to the podium, flipping Vogler off as he hung his cane on the side of the podium.

The applause that had first came at his introduction quickly died, and House stalled for time by adjusting the microphone. His eyes swept the room and sought out his team, for some reason, and he found Chase and Cameron sitting together with Wilson and Cuddy. A distance away, Foreman was leaning against a doorway, trying to appear casual. But on every one of their faces were tense with barely-contained anticipation.

Behind him, Vogler quietly cleared his throat so that only House could hear it.

House drew in a breath, and in that split second his decision was made. "Eastbrook Pharmaceuticals' extraordinary commitment to research excellence is exemplified by their new ACE inhibitor, a breakthrough medical approach that will protect millions from heart disease." And then he turned around, grabbed his cane, and went to leave the stage.

"That's not a speech," Vogler said in a soft, deadly voice.

"I thought it was pithy," House responded, making no move to turn back around. "You got enough for a press release, anyhow."

"Foreman or Chase?" Vogler reminded him with a cocked eyebrow.

Inwardly seething, House gave him a tight smile and returned to the podium. Practically shaking with contained fury, he looked out at the audience and suddenly, his mouth opened and words started pouring out. "A few things I forgot to mention—Ed Vogler is a brilliant businessman. A brilliant judge of people, and a man who has never lost a fight. You know how I know the new ACE inhibitor is good? Because the old one was good. The new one is really the same, it's just more expensive. A lot more expensive. See, that's another example of Ed's brilliance. Whenever one of his drugs is about to lose its patent, he has his boys and girls alter it just a tiny bit and patent it all over again, making not just a pointless new pill, but millions and millions of dollars. Which is good for everybody, right? The patients? Psht. Who cares, they're just so damn sick! God obviously never liked them anyway. All the healthy people in the room, let's have a big round of applause for Ed Vogler!"

The room was silent as House gave a sarcastic round of applause. He caught sight of Cuddy's furious face, Wilson sitting with his face in his hands, Chase tipping back a glass of champagne and Cameron staring determinedly at the tablecloth before her. Before he could find Foreman, he had spun around and was handing Vogler his fourteen pages of 'points to cover'.

"I threw in a joke," he said, throwing on a smirk despite the fact that his brain with swirling with the ramifications of what he'd just done. And then he walked off the stage, knowing that tomorrow he would awaken to a very different world.

oOo

The men's restrooms smelled of urine and could have used a good cleaning, but it was probably the safest place that they could be. Chase wished that Vogler wasn't quite so clever as he went to lean against a stall door, only to jerk back quickly as he realized that it was wet with something.

"That wasn't the original deal," he countered, taking a slight step backwards and eyeing Vogler warily. "You can't change it."

"You came to me because you wanted to keep your job," Vogler said calmly, his eyes as cold as a tiger who knows that he's tricked his prey into a corner. "Has that changed?"

"House chose Cameron," Chase said. His eyes darted to the door as he neurotically wished that House would come through the door. "Not me. He doesn't want to fire me. My job _is_ safe."

"I can just as easily fire you," Vogler said in an even voice.

"You can't—Cuddy won't allow you to have free reign over firing doctors," Chase argued, the thought of doing... _that_ making his stomach turn unpleasantly. "If she had, House would have been packing his bags last Tuesday."

Vogler's nostrils flared and a muscle in his jaw twitched, and Chase unconsciously took another step backwards. "You," Vogler said in a thinly controlled voice, "are not head of a department. Firing you would be like flicking an ant off of a table."

Chase swallowed. "But I have no idea what—"

"Trust me," Vogler said, shoving a file into his hands. "You'll find way. You don't have a choice anymore." He left Chase standing in the bathroom, alone.


	2. Enter the Circus

**Untouchable**

**Chapter 2  
**_(Enter the Circus)_

Vogler was not sitting in House's desk the following morning with termination papers in hand.

This alone was enough to set House into paranoia. He made Cameron open the door for him, just in case there was some sort of rigged bucket of water (or, as was more likely when it came to Vogler, a bucket of liquid nitrogen) just inside the door. He triple-checked his cane to make sure that it hadn't been tampered with, and Foreman had to rock vigorously in his desk chair until House was satisfied that it, too, had not been booby trapped overnight. He was almost disappointed when Cameron failed to keel over and die after taking a sip of his coffee.

"House, do you seriously think that he would have poisoned your _coffee?_" Cameron asked as she handed him the cup of coffee from which she'd just taken a sip. "It would be too obvious if all of us keeled over and died over our coffee cups."

"You get your coffee from Starbucks," House pointed out. "He doesn't care about the rest of us." But all the same, he took his coffee and sat down behind his desk. "Where's Chase?"

Foreman shrugged. "Maybe Vogler fired him."

"How about it, Cameron? Wanna fill us in?" House asked, earning him a scowl from Cameron. He rolled his eyes.

Suddenly, the door flew open and Chase came in looking harried. His hair was disheveled and he kept his head down as he crossed the room briskly, shoving a file at House and then yanking back a chair and sitting down. He dropped his bag down to the floor and stared at the table furiously while his breathing echoed off the walls of the silent room.

House stared at the file in his hands, noted that it was a patient file, but found himself more interested in Chase's arrival and the subsequent awkward silence as Cameron and Foreman tried not to look at him too closely.

"Well," he said loudly, drawing the attention away from Chase for a minute. "We have a case, apparently. Who caught you?"

"Vogler," Chase mumbled, almost unintelligible.

House made a face as he opened the folder. "Goody. Pregnant woman, 39 years old, three miscarriages. Symptoms are: altered mental status and loss of coordination. Tox screen's clean, except for oxybutynin."

"Was she taking it for incontinence?" Foreman asked.

House pushed himself to his feet and limped over to the whiteboard. "Yeah," he said as he uncapped a purple marker and began scribbling down the symptoms. "Probably something underlying—something easy, like an autoimmune disease."

"I'll check her blood," Cameron offered, pushing back her chair and standing up.

"Do an MRA for vasculitis too," House said. "All of you."

"It doesn't take three people to run blood work and do an MRA," Foreman protested, not getting out of his seat.

"An ultrasound? Excellent thought!" House said, pretending not to have heard Foreman. "And put her on magnesium just in case it's something boring like preeclampsia."

A round of sighs came from his team, Foreman grumbled something unintelligible as he stood up, and House watch as they trooped out of the room like a group of soldiers just sent to the fight on the front lines. He rolled his eyes and began searching for his GameBoy.

It wasn't in his desk, where he usually stored it, so that meant that he had probably set it down in his office and left it to collect dust. Where had he been in his office last night? He'd been pacing, staring at the speech he was supposed to give. In fact, he hadn't touched his GameBoy all day yesterday. Which meant that he had to think back two days... And he couldn't remember. House considered tearing his office apart in pursuit of the little toy, but instead fished out his iPod and worked the buds into his ears. Flipping it on, he began to scroll through the list of artists when he became aware of another presence in the room.

Looking up, there was none other than Edward Vogler standing in the doorway.

"Dr. House," Vogler greeted cordially, offering a thin smile. "How are you this morning?"

"Just dandy," House said, eyeing Vogler with slight apprehension. "What can I do for you?"

"I trust that you remember our conversation about your faculty," Vogler said, picking up House's tennis ball and rolling it around in the palm of his hand.

"Yeah," House said, yanking the earbuds out of his ears. He balled them up in the palm of his hand and then jammed them back into his pocket. "Are you here to add more fine print? Chase was next on my list, in case you were wondering."

"Actually," Vogler said calmly, unruffled as a tabby cat, "I wanted to let you know that it's no longer necessary for you to fire any of your staff. A recent donor contribution has allowed us to keep your current department the way it was."

House blinked.

"You said it wasn't about the money," he said slowly, staring at Vogler while he processed this new information. It didn't make any sense.

"I would tread carefully." Vogler went on as if he hadn't spoken. "This money might not last forever. Enjoy the time that you have with your team, Dr. House." A cold smile curled his lips.

Obviously, Vogler was not relenting out of free will, House decided. Maybe Cuddy had finally stepped up and said something on his behalf, made a few threats and got Vogler to back off for a while. But that wouldn't have been like Cuddy to chance losing money for the hospital, and it wouldn't have been like Vogler to back off and listen to her unless Cuddy had dug up some serious shit on him. Unless Vogler was planning some new game to play with him, something worse than making his choose which of his staff to fire—House could certainly think of a dozen things worse than that.

As Vogler left the room, House stuffed the iPod back into his pocket to join the headphones, his mind already bubbling with unanswered questions and half-formed plots.

oOo

Cuddy had an early lunch that day, and House was sorely disappointed to discover that she wasn't in her office when he entered. After proving to himself that he could easily hack into her computer and browse through her files (not that there was anything interesting, really) and failing to open the top right drawer with a paperclip, House found himself bored enough to start fiddling with the objects on Cuddy's desk. He changed the date to a week from now, arranged two little stuffed cows so that they appeared in a very inappropriate position, and was in the process of writing 'Botox Much?" with magic marker on the front of her desk when Cuddy walked in.

"What are you doing now?" Cuddy asked warily, collapsing into one of the chairs in front of her desk.

"Nothing," House replied, finishing his C and moving over to start on the H. "Good lunch?"

"Are you—does that say _Botox?_" Cuddy demanded, leaning forward as House began to color in the H that he'd drawn. "Stop coloring on my desk!"

"Stop messing with my head," House said evenly, continuing to color without bothering to look up.

"Messing with your head?" Cuddy repeated blankly.

"As nice as it is to have someone stepping in on my behalf, it's irritating as all hell when you don't tell me ahead of time," House said, still coloring diligently. The marker was beginning to run out of ink—he should have made the letters smaller—but he just pressed down harder.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cuddy said. "But an explanation would be nice."

House paused as the marker finally ran too low to color with and turned around to look at Cuddy, studying her with intent eyes. She was relaxed back into the chair, her right hand was tugging on her earlobe and her face was expectant.

"You're not lying," he decided.

"About what?" she asked, frowning. "House, what's going on?"

"Nothing," House muttered, hopping up from his spot and grabbed his cane. He dropped the dead marker into the garbage can as he walked away.

oOo

"House!"

House's head snapped up and he found himself face to face with Foreman and Cameron. His hand twitched on the mouse, almost clicking out of the window he was in reflexively before remembering that his ducklings, if they were even smart enough to realize it, wouldn't care that he had hacked into the hospital's database and was sweeping their financial records. So he returned to his computer, scrolling down the list.

"What is it now?" he asked, snorting quietly as he saw Cameron's name on the list of people who had donated money towards the new geriatrics ward. It would figure. Vogler had probably given her a secret raise as part of their little bargain, because there was no way she could have donated that much on the salary he was giving her.

"It's Naomi," Cameron said. "She went into labor during the MRA."

"Preeclampsia," House said in a bored tone, bringing up another window and cross-referencing it. "Stick her up in maternity."

"It can't be preeclampsia," Foreman said immediately. "She's showing signs of myasthenia. It doesn't fit."

"What, did she fall out of her wheelchair?" House asked, taking a second to look away from the computer screen to glance at Foreman. "And where's Chase?"

"He's showering," Cameron said. "Said he had an incident with a patient this morning and couldn't get the smell out of his hair."

House would have made a comment about Chase, but his mind was distracted as he realized that he'd reached the end of the donors list, to no avail. Which meant that Vogler had indeed been lying his ass off this morning when he'd said that the hospital had received a new donation. He'd have to start getting down and dirty if he wanted to find out the real reason behind this sudden reprieve.

With a scowl he closed the screen and remembered his patient with new clarity. "What's with the supposed myasthenia?"

"She choked," Cameron said. "But people choke all the time—it doesn't mean anything."

"What did she choke on?" House asked, reaching for his cane. Finding it, he planted it firmly and pulled himself out of his chair, then began making his way to the conference room just in case this debate played out in Foreman's favor. Cameron and Foreman's footsteps echoed behind him, following their boss dutifully.

"Some cooked pear," Foreman said impatiently with a frustrated exhale. "It doesn't matter! The muscle weakness isn't a sign of preeclampsia."

"She choked on a soft, wet pear. Did she forget to take the bones out? That's way past muscle weakness—did you do an upper endoscopy?" he asked, watching as Cameron's mouth opened, no doubt to protest her case for preeclampsia, but Foreman spoke up before she could get in a word.

"No, we didn't," Foreman said, shaking his head.

"Well the go drag Chase out of the showers and get going!" House snapped, watching Cameron and Foreman hustle out of his office with satisfaction.

oOo

Wilson stared at him with raised eyebrows. "You've got to be kidding."

"No, it's true," House said. "People really are that stupid."

"Not that," Wilson said in irritation, waving an impatient hand. "I can't believe that _you_ wouldn't have called social services! I would have done the same thing! Abuse doesn't have to be conscious, you know."

House scowled as he realized that Wilson was going to take Cuddy's side. "My patient, my call," he said stubbornly. "All they needed was a proper education on infant care and the runt would have been just fine." His fingers picked up a little finger puppet that one of Wilson's patients must have made for him and began playing with it.

"You need to be careful," Wilson said, lowering his voice and leaning forward across the desk. He reached over and snatched the puppet off of House's finger, making House look over at him and glare. Setting the puppet down now that he had House's attention, he continued sotto voce. "Vogler's just waiting for an excuse to knock you off. All you need is one strike—one little thing not according to regulations—and you're gone! He's just _waiting_ for you, House."

House opened his mouth to give a flippant remark in response, when a thought occurred to him and he quickly changed direction. "He's getting what he wants—I've still got to fire Foreman or Chase."

"You should be grateful it isn't worse, considering your stunt last night," Wilson reminded him. "I was half expecting to see you packing up your office this morning."

House shook his head. "Nope. Still here. Dunno who I'm going to pick, though." He reached for the finger puppet and put it back on his index finger. "I like this. Tell Dorothy to make me some for my birthday."

"Her name's Danielle, and she won't be around for your birthday," Wilson informed him, leaning back in his chair with a resigned sigh.

Secretly, House was both relieved and disappointed. Wilson hadn't been the one who'd pulled Vogler's strings to get him off of House's back for the time being, which was good news, but it also meant that he was no closer to finding out who _was_ playing puppeteer with Vogler. Trying to hide his frustration, he took off the finger puppet and said, "My patient has cancer."

"Do you want me to take a look at it?" Wilson asked, cocking his head to the side slightly.

"The tests haven't come back yet," House said. "But they should be here soon." He stood up, reaching for his cane so that he could trek back to his office where his ducklings would come and seek him out and tell him that their patient had paraneoplastic syndrome, as well as a tumor in some area of her lungs. "I'll be returning soon. Don't let anyone take my chair."

He limped over to the door and twisted the knob roughly and yanked the door open. He breezed into the hallway, letting the door shut itself behind him, and took the five steps that it took to get into his office. But he stopped before it, staring through the glass windows because his office was not the way that he'd left it. The blinds were now shut.

Who knew? Maybe Chase and Cameron were in there having kinky sex on his desk.

House put a hand on the door and shoved it open with one hand, and he was immediately plunged into darkness. His office was pitch black with the blinds drawn, and somehow not even the scant rays of light from the setting sun were making the cracks between the blinds glow with light. His ears buzzed with the sudden silence and the blackness pressed against his eyes like he was drowning in a puddle of ink. For a second, he couldn't even breathe. It was like time had suspended itself and rendered him senseless, unable to think. His body felt frozen, and the only thought that ran through his head was Vogler. This had to be something that he'd set up, some sort of plot to get him to trip in the dark, make his death look like an accident.

His hand went for the light switch, but it wasn't there. He reached out, running his fingers along the wall and searching, feeling his way around for the little plastic casing.

A hand touched his back.

"Fuck!" House shouted, nearly jumping out of his skin. He whirled around immediately, but his eyes only saw the black expanses of nothingness. But his ears, becoming attuned to the silence, picked up the light breathing of another person. Somewhere in this room, someone was playing a joke on him.

Rolling his eyes at himself for being so jumpy, he began limping back to the door to turn on the switch so that he could chew out whoever had devised this little prank. But he hadn't taken two steps when a hand caught him around the wrist.

"Let go," House said exasperatedly, tugging. When the hand wouldn't release, he pulled harder. "I'll whack you with my cane if you don't let go of me."

Slowly, a body pressed up against his and he felt hot breath in his ear. "No, you won't."

His heart began to race slightly as fear swept through his mind. Who was this person and what the _hell_ did they think they were doing? This didn't feel like an innocent prank anymore. It was Vogler, he knew it. The bastard was here, in the room, about to get revenge. And he was trapped like an animal, the hand still firmly grasping his wrist. Something was pounding against his chest but it took him a minute to realize that it was not his own heart so wildly beating, but the heart of the other person. They were pressed up against each other.

Was Vogler this skinny?

"What do you want?" he whispered, afraid of taking a louder tone for fear of what it might betray.

"Nothing," the person said, but a hint of Australian leaked into the whispered tones and House instantly recognized who it was.

His hands came up to the other person's shoulders, trying to shove him away. "What the hell, Chase?"

A finger that was not his own came to his lips. "Shh," Chase whispered.

House opened his mouth to reply but choked when fingers brushed against his ear, as if they were combing back nonexistent hair. He had a split second to breathe, and then his mind exploded as he felt Chase's lips lock on to his. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is not happening, I am not kissing my employee, get off, get—_

Emotions flooded his body too fast for him to analyze, shooting like burning fire and exploding like fireworks. His hands were feeling fabric, feeling taut skin and the rough patterns of stubble and the hollow crevices in between bones, but was he pushing or pulling? The world was spinning and flipping until it couldn't exist anymore because he couldn't feel the floor, he didn't even know if there was a floor and he didn't care anymore. This passion, this pure adrenaline was directed at _him_, and it was his. He owned it.

The power rushing through him was intoxicating, and he wanted more. More, more for him to take and own and control, and when it began to slip he gripped even harder and lashed out angrily. It was _his,_ and no one would take it away from him. He would never let go, never let this get out of his control because then the power would leave. He couldn't feel anything but control and power and white-hot energy keeping him standing and he wasn't ever going to let go of this thing that belonged to him. More, he needed to have more of this...

Suddenly, the wall was behind him and he was pressed up against it, kissing Chase furiously.

Chase.

He was kissing _Chase_.

And for an instant, he'd been enjoying it.

"Chase," he gasped, out of breath as he tore his mouth away for a split second.

Chase's voice came out in a low growl. "Shut up."

"I don't—" His mouth stopped working and he pressed himself against the wall, hissing as he stifled a cry of pleasure. Fuck, Chase was _good._

"You want this," Chase said in a low voice, his hands moving across House's chest and working off the buttons deftly.

"I don't," he said as loud as he could, but he was panting and it was too airy and soft.

"Yes, you do," Chase said quietly, his hands stilling as they came into contact with House's bare chest.

Time was suspended as they stood there in the dark. He couldn't see anything. Loud, heavy breathing resonated off the walls but he didn't know if it was his or Chase's. He didn't care. His heart was pumping so fast that it felt like it might burst through his chest and his lips were swollen and wet.

"I challenge you to a game of Dare Chess," Chase breathed, his hands leaving House's chest.

"What?" House asked dazedly, his mind spinning and empty at the same time. Chase was gone, he wasn't touching anymore, the heat and the passion had disappeared and he was left in the dark room.

"Pawn to G3," Chase said, and then the lights came on.

"Shit!"

House's eyes seared with pain and he flinched away, hunching over to get away from the light. Distantly, the sound of the door opening and brisk footsteps echoing down the hallway came to his ears, but it didn't register. His eyes burned, pulsated with pain like they'd been physically burned with a torch. Fuck Chase, bastard, this _hurt_.

When his eyes had recovered from the shocking light change, House looked up and realized that Chase had left the room. The kid had used the lights as a tool, his getaway car, and House had fallen right into it.

Swearing, House collapsed into the nearest seat and closed his eyes, trying desperately to think of anything but Chase.

oOo

Vomit.

His skin was sweaty and his hands trembled while his vision blurred with tears he was refusing to let fall. Before him, the toilet stank. He felt disgusting. What he wouldn't give to be anyone else right now, someone who hadn't just, just practically fucked their boss in his office. Their boss. Their _male_ boss.

It wasn't worth it.

Hell, it wasn't _right_. He wasn't supposed to kiss other men. He wasn't supposed to seduce other men and _touch_ them and make then gasp for air. But he had. He had to, and he would have to do it again. His lips would touch the bare skin of that bastard, his voice would slip out his name in loving whispers, his hands would... They would _touch_ him. He would touch House's penis. In all likelihood, House's penis would be shoved up his ass and he would have to lay there and not only endure it, but pretend to love it.

Rape. He was going to allow himself to be raped to save his job.

His stomach twisted at the thought of laying in bed with House, the sheets reeking of semen and sweat, his naked body touching House's nasty, old, hairy, disgusting—

He threw up again.


	3. Romeo

**Untouchable**

**Chapter 3  
**_(Romeo)_

By the time he got to his office the next morning, House had figured it out.

He expected to see Chase there at the door, ready to take his coat and to pull out his desk chair for him. To his surprise, Chase was not in his office at all when he entered. House was further surprised when a glance over to the conference room revealed that Chase was sitting with Cameron and Foreman, sipping a cup of coffee. Why wasn't the little suck up in here?

House shrugged and turned around, set his cane next to his desk, and was about to throw down a stack of papers he'd been carrying when he noticed that there was something on his desk.

It was a chessboard. A plain and simple chessboard made from a thin wooden board (balsa, maybe) stained messily with dark checks, and atop it were crudely crafted chess pieces. It looked like a high school shop project that someone had scrambled to finish at the last minute. His fingers brushed against the pieces carefully, light maple and pink cherry, and he would have probably started knocking them over, one by one, when he noticed that it wasn't just a set chessboard—one of the pieces had been moved.

Of course, it was a pawn.

_Pawn to G3._

"Fucking Australians," he muttered, scowling at the board, but he let the pieces be for now. As much as he hated to admit it, part of him was interested in this bizarre game that Chase was playing with him. And part of him wanted to win whatever bizarre game that Chase was playing with him, just to prove him wrong.

House blew out a breath and took off his coat, threw it on his chair, and then headed into the conference room. Chase, Cameron and Foreman were all sipping cups of coffee, sitting down at the table and waiting for something to happen. He opened the door and immediately felt the atmosphere shift as Cameron and Foreman's heads snapped up and stared at him.

"What're you staring at?" he barked, strolling into the room with a scowl.

"You're still here," Cameron said in surprise, her voice almost as if she were talking more to herself than to House.

"Well done, give the girl a gold sticker," House said impatiently. "What's up with..." He stopped, trying fruitlessly to remember the patient's name.

"Naomi," Chase supplied helpfully.

"Yeah, her. What's happening with her?" House asked, making his way over to the coffee machine and pulling his mug off the counter. The coffee pot was still steaming, so he couldn't have been that late.

"We sent you the lab report last night," Foreman said.

"Actually, you sent Chase," House said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. It smelled funny. He took a sip and immediately recognized it as one of the flavored InstaMug coffees that Cameron sometimes made, but it wasn't as bad as it usually was. "Who failed to give me any lab report whatsoever. So tell me what you did."

He watched Cameron and Foreman turn to look at Chase, who shrugged noncommittally.

"We didn't do anything," Cameron said. "Chase was _supposed_ to come back down and tell us what to do, but he never did. Foreman and I went up to your office, but neither one of you were there. We just assumed..." She trailed off there and looked down at her hands.

"Nope, not fired," House said cheerfully. "The Ghost of Christmases Yet To Come gave Vogler a visit—we're all off the hook. You morons even got to keep your jobs." He noted that someone had erased the whiteboard overnight, which meant that he'd been right and... Natalie or whatever had some kind of tumor. "Where was the tumor at?"

Foreman spoke up after a moment's pause. "It was small-cell lung cancer."

"Did you—"

"I talked to Naomi, and she's decided to go ahead with the radiation treatment, starting this evening," Chase said, taking a sip of his coffee. "She has a C-section scheduled for this afternoon."

There was a beat of surprised silence.

"Well," House at last. "Three cheers for the wombat." His brain turned this over furiously as he watched Chase sit back in his chair and lift his mug off the table.

oOo

House was surprised by the lack of Vogler. He would have at least expected a show of fireworks when Vogler discovered that House had lied to get Naomi into a drug trial program (okay, so Chase had lied, but the blame would, regardless, fall on him) right after her C-section. But there was nothing—Vogler obviously hadn't heard about his trick on Prather, because House knew that it violated too many protocols to count and could ruin the entire study if something went wrong.

The considerable pile of old medical journals that he'd put together yesterday was still sitting next to his desk, unmoved. The box he'd stolen from one of the janitorial closets was on top of it. The side of it read _Hellman's Apples_ in dark blue lettering. House was considering starting to put them in the box, but that would involve either getting down on his knees, or doing the whole thing from his chair, and neither one of those sounded especially painless. Where were his ducklings? He should go get one of them to do it for him.

"The C-Section was postponed."

House looked up and saw Cameron standing in the doorway. He took a moment to process what she'd said, and then scowled. "Vogler."

"She, uh, had a pulmonary embolism, actually," Cameron said meekly. "Prather says that you, um, promised him a patient this afternoon?"

House pressed his face into his palms, trying to think his way out of this mess. This was going all wrong. He couldn't _tell_ Prather that Naomi's C-Section had been postponed, but there were no immediate lies that came to his mind. "Afternoon is a very relative term," he said after a moment, looking up to Cameron. "Tell him that." He would deal with Prather later.

oOo

"Hey Wilson!"

Wilson's head didn't even come up. He continued typing away on his laptop, the fact that he leaned back slightly the only indication that he'd heard House at all. His office smelled like doughnuts, which meant that he'd been to the nurse's station in the last fifteen minutes. House spotted the two napkins in the garbage, confirming his suspicions.

"Got your daily quota of McLovin', I see," he commented as he poked the napkins with his cane.

Wilson didn't take the bait. "Getting your daily quota of I'm Bored So I'll Annoy Decent Folk time, I see."

"Chase is gay," House said, plopping down in a chair.

"Was it the hair that tipped you off?" Wilson asked dryly, stilling tapping away at his keyboard.

House reached over and slammed the lid of the laptop shut. Wilson got his fingers out of way just in time. "He kissed me."

"House!" Wilson spluttered, staring at his shut laptop in dismay. He seemed utterly unconcerned with what House had just said. "That's due in an hour!"

"Oh, relax. I know you save your stuff at least three times a minute," House said, rolling his eyes. "He _kissed _me. With tongue."

"I'll bet he did," Wilson muttered, reopening his laptop with a scowl. He didn't look up, focusing on the computer screen as the machine rebooted. "Did he drag you into a closet and screw you, too?"

"Yeah right," House said with a snort. He frowned, and then shut the laptop again.

"House!" Wilson cried, scrambling to reopen it. "Can't we talk about your midlife-sexuality-crisis later? Like, when I'm not working?"

"He _kissed_ me!" House complained loudly. "And you don't even care!"

"Yes," Wilson said, a letting out a small breath of relief as document came up. "I'm a terrible friend. Go pour your troubled heart out to Cameron."

"She'd suffocate it with her slimy little tentacles," House said, wrinkling his nose at the thought.

"You could try Foreman," Wilson suggested, beginning to type again.

"He would eat it."

Wilson stopped typing for a moment. "Did he seriously kiss you?" he asked, leaning back in his chair as he surveyed House. His eyebrows were knitted in a frown, and House knew that if he'd had a pen in his hand, he would have been chewing on the end of it. "Seriously?"

House stood up and shut the laptop again. "No."

Wilson groaned loudly as House walked out the door and went back to his office.

He was expecting to be alone in his office for a while, waiting for one of the ducklings to come waddling up to give him the latest update on their patient. He hadn't checked his email today, and he was expecting a message from eBay about the records he'd won last week. His paper football collection was looking a bit battered. The chess set on his desk needed to be more thoroughly inspected. And he needed to sync his iPod with his computer again, because he'd gotten a new CD a few days ago.

But his ducklings were already standing in office, huddled together to weather out the storm. Spectacular.

"I'm busy," he said as he walked past them and sat down at his desk. He turned on his computer without looking at them. "Take a number."

"Naomi died," Foreman said, crossing his arms over his chest. "We got the clot, but she started bleeding into her abdomen."

Surprised, House looked over to them. Cameron had her hands shoved in the pockets of her scrubs and was staring down at the floor. Chase was running a hand through his hair and looking over to Foreman with a tired expression on his face. And Foreman was waiting for House to say something.

"And Junior?" House asked, sitting back in his chair.

No one spoke for a minute. Then Chase sighed. "The husband wouldn't let us do a C-section in time. By the time we got in, Naomi was dead and the baby died a few minutes later."

House nodded slowly, processing the news. "Okay. Okay, Cameron, this was your pimp daddy's idea—go take care of the paperwork. Foreman, you can deal the husband. Don't let him near anything with sharp edges. Chase, stay here."

Foreman and Cameron filed out of the room, Cameron patting Chase on the shoulder awkwardly before she left. Chase nodded towards her, but his expression didn't change. Foreman held the door for Cameron, and then he went in the opposite direction. House waited until he'd counted to ten, just to stretch the silence into something uncomfortable, and then he spoke.

"So," he said, picking up his red ball and spinning it between his fingers. He watched Chase cross and uncross his arms. "I get what you were doing last night. And I'm sure you heard what I said this morning, so you can take this thing back home." He nudged the chess board, not flinching when the pawn that Chase had moved wobbled, fell over and rolled in a circle until it hit the nearby rook.

Chase raised his eyebrows. "You think that I was going to start sleeping with you to make sure my job was safe?"

"Is there another reason?" House asked. He threw the ball up in the air, catching it in the other hand.

"I started the game," Chase said, taking the pawn and setting it upright, back on its square. "It's not over yet."

"I never said I was playing," House replied. He stopped throwing the ball and held it between his hands contemplatively for a moment, and then he threw it to Chase.

Chase caught it, but just barely. He eyed House, holding the ball in both hands. "You lose, then. And winner takes all."

"You can't win. I never played," House said, watching the ball in Chase's hands, ready to duck if it came flying back at him.

"This is Dare Chess," Chase said with a faintly amused smile. "It doesn't matter."

"Dare Chess," House repeated dubiously. He considered seizing the ball out of Chase's hands and telling him to get back to work, to go and cover his clinic hours. His hands twitched, but... What the hell was Dare Chess?

"Yeah," Chase said with a nod, unperturbed. "Dare Chess."

"Do I want to know what strange games you play back in Oz?" House asked finally, curiosity winning.

Chase set the ball down on the desk. "We play chess," he said, indicating the board with one hand. "For every move you make on the board, you make a move on your opponent. You can't refuse a move. If you do, you forfeit."

"So what's a move?" House said, more interested than he would have liked to be. "Would a hand-job count?"

Chase nodded again. "That works. You can ask a question, say something or make a physical move. Nothing else is allowed."

House made a face. "That sounds girly. Do we play this before or after Truth or Dare?"

"It doesn't matter," Chase said, shrugging. He ran a finger along the edge of the chessboard, not looking up at House. "You can't tell anyone we're playing. Or anything I say."

"What if I say I quit?" House challenged. "What do I lose?"

Chase looked up to him with a wicked grin. "I get to be on top."

House raised his eyebrows, deciding to play along for the moment. "All right. Pawn to E5. Why hell are you doing this?"

"Sometimes..." Chase hesitated. He stared at the board for a moment, and then reached out and moved House's pawn. "This is the only way I could think of to get you interested. If this is what it takes to get what I want, then I'll do it."

"You're saying that you're _in love_ with me?" House snorted. "Oh, boy. Wait until Radiology gets their paws on this."

Chase shook his head. "You can't tell anyone, remember?"

House scowled. "That's a dumb rule."

"Break it, and you lose," Chase reminded him. "Bishop to G2. Have you ever had sex with a man before?"

"What do you think me and Wilson do every night?" House said, watching Chase move the bishop to the right. "Kinky man-lovin' every night."

"You have to tell the truth," Chase said steadily, looking House in the eyes.

House smirked and pointed at him. "You," he said, "are totally making this up as you go. I _know_ you can lie better than this."

"Are you going to answer the question, or forfeit?" Chase asked, cocking his head slightly, completely unaffected by House's accusations.

"You make such a drama out of it," House said, rolling his eyes. "Jesus. Of _course_ I have. Didn't you go to college?"

Chase nodded slowly, staring at House's desk, unfocused. "Okay," he said to himself. He looked back up to House and nodded again. "Okay. Good."

"Pawn to E4," House said. "Go away."

oOo

Chase shut the door behind him. He turned, walking down the hallway rapidly with his mind fixated on getting to the restroom. His heart was pounding and his head felt like it was about to explode if he had to keep up this facade a moment longer.

He yanked open the door and walked to the first stall, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Chase collapsed against the door, taking deep breaths and focusing on not hyperventilating. He was trembling all over, so hard that he had trouble breathing, standing, even thinking. He needed to calm down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Nothing had happened. All they'd done was talk, asked a few questions. He wouldn't have to...

Stop.

Breathe.

Christ, this was really happening.


	4. Not Myself

**Untouchable  
Chapter 4  
**_(Not Myself)_

There was a knock at the door.

House scowled at the door from where he was sitting in front of his piano and in the middle of a somewhat improvised rendition of Emerson Lake & Palmer's _Honky Tonk Woman_. It would be Wilson, who had a key that he refused to use. So he kept playing, not even bothering to tell Wilson to let himself in.

Another knock, and House shook his head and leaned into the music, increasing the volume as he went along with the song. Another twenty measures slipped by before he saw the handle of the door turn, and Wilson strode in with a bag in hand. House tentatively sniffed the air, wondering if Wilson had brought him takeout tonight, but he couldn't detect anything. Slightly disappointed with the idea that he would being having the last can of Spaghetti O's for dinner tonight, House decided to end the song early and pounded out a last few chords and slowed the tempo to a stop.

"Brought beer," Wilson said by way of an offering. He set the bag on the couch and took off his coat, throwing it on the back of the couch.

"But no food," House countered, grabbing his cane and standing up. He began to migrate to the kitchen, intent on finding the can opener.

"I'm not hungry," Wilson said.

House snorted. "Well, that's selfish of you. Don't you think your poor, crippled friend might want something to eat? I don't exactly go grocery shopping. The whole pushing the cart thing..." He yanked open a drawer, the only one he had full of kitchen-like things (spatulas, tongs, scissors, a thermometer, a... melon scoop?), and pulled out the can opener.

"You can order your groceries online, nowadays," Wilson commented. "They deliver them to your house."

House looked over his shoulder and glared at Wilson. "I'd have to tip the delivery boy." He spun the knob of the can opener, rolling along the sides of the can.

"How horrible," Wilson said dryly.

"It would be," House said. "Especially since I have you—you go and get my groceries, cook my meals, do my dishes, _and_ I don't have to tip you. You can't beat that."

"Are you having _Spaghetti O's?_" Wilson asked, the incredulous look one House knew so well that he could picture it in his mind as he dumped the contents of the can into a bowl. "Do you know the crap that goes into that stuff?"

House stuck the bowl in the microwave. "It tastes fine to me, so no, don't tell me. I'd rather not know which country is using cats instead of cows to make meatballs."

Wilson sighed. "That's gross."

"Says the man who has sex with dying people," House said. He watched the green numbers change on the microwave, counting the seconds until dinner. "I think they call that subnecrophelia."

"Were you really lying this afternoon, about Chase kissing you?" Wilson asked.

House pretended to stumbled backwards, putting a hand to his heart. "Whoa! Wilson, don't change the subject like that! Do that again, and I might think you were trying to avoid talking about something."

"Like you're doing right now?" Wilson suggested, unimpressed with House's dramatics.

"Who died today?" House shot back, pulling the microwave door open and picking up his bowl. He held it steadily in one hand, very careful not to spill an ounce, and limped over to the table sans cane.

Wilson, he was surprised to see, had his head in his hands.

"If you're going to start crying, the door's ten feet to your left," House said, limping back to the counter to get his cane and a spoon.

"Four," Wilson said tiredly. "Four people died today."

"You sure that was it?" House asked. "It comes in threes and sevens."

"Shut up," Wilson said, bringing his head up to look at House. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. "Let's talk about Chase."

House rolled his eyes, taking a spoonful of Spaghetti O's. "Nothing to talk about. I lied."

"Why'd you come into my office, demanding attention?" Wilson asked, his expression clearly trying to hold back disgust at House's dinner.

"To annoy you," House said. "Are we gonna get shit-faced drunk tonight, or did you only bring the sissy stuff because you want something other than rum and whiskey?"

"Whatever," Wilson mumbled, scrubbing his hand with his face. "We're going until I forget about those four bodies."

House nodded.

OoO

The chess set was still there the following morning, despite the fact that House had gotten drunk enough last night to make himself believe that the entire thing had been a hallucination. But it was not, and as he thought about it, he scowled. The pieces were still moved from yesterday, the little pink bishop slightly off-center from its dark square. How long was this going to go on?

Casting a glance over to the conference room, he saw Cameron enter the room and hang her coat on the rack on the wall.

"Morning," he heard Foreman say to her.

"Yeah," Cameron replied, going over to the coffee machine. "Thanks for starting the coffee—my neighbor lost her dog and wouldn't leave me alone until I helped her find him."

Chase, who was sitting at the table with the newspaper and a pen behind his ear, said without looking up, "I'd go down to the cafeteria for coffee if I were you."

Foreman glared. "The coffee is fine," he said testily.

Chase shrugged.

Foreman took another sip of his coffee.

"You didn't bother to go through the case files down in the ER, did you?" Cameron asked, stirring creamer into her coffee. She threw the stirrer into the garbage can and made her way over to the table.

"No. Cameron, you look like crap," Chase said, frowning in concern as he looked at her. "Something wrong?"

Cameron looked at him. "I didn't sleep well—the dog… Why?"

"Nothing," Chase muttered, flushing and looking down at the crossword. He pulled out his pen and quickly wrote in an answer.

Giving him a final, suspicious look over the rim of her coffee cup, Cameron took a sip of her coffee and sat down.

House snorted. Chase obviously had no idea how to hold a tactful conversation with somebody, because he'd just failed miserably, twice, within a minute. Maybe he was just a hopeless case all around. But it would keep him amused, he supposed, watching Chase attempt to be friendly. He needed _something_ to do without a case.

He pushed open the door to the conference room, not bothering with a morning greeting.

"Do we have a case?" Cameron asked hopefully.

"Nope," House said. He glanced at the coffee, and then decided that Chase was just being an idiot about Foreman and poured himself a cup. "Nothing to do."

Foreman rolled his eyes. "That's right. We solved a case, filled our weekly quota, didn't we?"

"Actually, we went over," House said, picking up the creamer and looking at the label for a moment before setting it back down on the counter. Black coffee this morning. "Solved the Senator on Monday."

"Anything you want us to do?" Cameron asked.

House frowned, looking at her. "God, you look like shit today."

Cameron exhaled impatiently. "I didn't sleep very well," she said, sounding annoyed. "Is there anything you want us to do?"

"Paperwork. Clinic. Half of ICU is out with the flu. Entertain yourselves," House said. He took a sip of his coffee, just as a test, and found that it was a little watery but otherwise okay. Chase must be really picky about his coffee. Apocalypse

Foreman sighed heavily, resigned to another day of sitting on his hands.

"But I do need a volunteer," House added.

Cameron's head shot up.

"Chase! Thanks for volunteering!" he said quickly. "Into my office, right now."

Chase, looking slightly disgruntled, folded up his paper and stood up. He shrugged in answer to Cameron's questioning look, and then followed House into his office. Behind him, Foreman said something about doing Cameron's clinic hours if she would finish up the paperwork from their last patient. Dead patients were more always work than the ones that went home healthy.

House poked at the cardboard box with his cane as he passed it, knocking it to the floor with a soft thud. "Start putting those journals in the box."

"Are you throwing them out?" Chase asked, getting down on his knees and setting the box upright.

House sat down in his chair. "Sure."

"Why did you want me to help you? Foreman would have done it without asking any questions," Chase said as he began placing stacks of old medical journals into the box. Stacks and stacks and _stacks_.

"Tell me something," House ordered.

Chase tucked hair behind his ear, looking up to House with a slight smile on his face. "You wanted to ask me something, and you were hoping I'd make a move so you could counteract it."

"Fine," House said. "Don't make a move. I can wait."

Chase rolled his eyes. "Pawn to D4. Meet me in Exam Room 4 down in the clinic today. Around three."

"I'm busy," House said immediately.

"It'll be worth your while," Chase said, glancing up from the floor, his face set. "Promise."

"Uh-huh," House said. He moved Chase's pawn forward two squares. "My turn. Bishop to B4, and you're in check. Tell me about the day your mother died."

Chase froze. His hands, which had been about to pick up the last stack of journals, paused right above them, hovering. House heard him inhale very, very slowly.

"Go on," he prompted.

"House," Chase said in quiet voice. "Please."

"Answer. Or you forfeit," House reminded him. "We wouldn't want that, would we?"

Chase's shoulders slumped. He was silent.

"_Cha-ase_," House said in a singsong voice.

"It's not anything exciting," he said, shaking his head slightly. "She was in the hospital. Somebody'd mugged her on the streets, beat her up, and her lungs got infected. They knew she was DOA when she came through the doors."

"And strangely enough, you're an intensivist," House said, raising his eyebrows. He looked down at Chase, who was still sitting on his knees and staring at the ground. "Funny how that worked out."

"Yeah," Chase said roughly, finally moving to put the last stack of journals into the box. He got up off the ground and stared at him calmly. "Real funny."

House watched him leave the office, cocked his head, and then moved his bishop across the board. Check.

OoO

"Good afternoon, Dr. Cuddy," Vogler said as he entered the office. He cast a glance at the window, to the potted plants on Cuddy's windowsill, and then smiled. "How are you?"

Cuddy stopped typing to give him a wan smile. "I'm running a hospital, Mr. Vogler. How are _you _doing?"

Vogler let his teeth show as he chuckled. "I'm doing well, thanks. I can only imagine the pressures of being one of the three female department heads in the nation. You'd need some big shoulders for that."

Cuddy sat back in her chair, nodding slightly, as if she weren't sure whether that was a compliment or an insult. "Can I help you?"

Vogler shook his head. "I just wanted to give you an overview of tonight's board meeting. Very important subject coming up tonight—I thought you deserved some warning." He placed the manila folder on her desk, a top of a patch of free space on her desk blotter. "I hope I'll see you there."

"Of course," Cuddy said, taking the folder and turning it around. "I haven't missed one for over three years."

"My apologies," Vogler said, flipping his palms upward and bowing his head forward slightly.

Cuddy didn't notice. She had opened the folder and was staring at the first page in surprise. She took a beat to swallow, and she looked up to Vogler with raised eyebrows. "You want to close the free clinic?" Her voice was politely incredulous.

Vogler smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry about it—I'm sure we can work something out. We'll discuss it tonight, when everyone's there to give input."

"Okay," Cuddy said slowly, nodding her head. She set the folder down on the desk, her eyebrows knit as she stared up to Vogler. "I'm sure it will be an interesting discussion."

Vogler gave another smile, a nod, and then he left.

OoO

Wilson knew that he was in trouble when House didn't come and find him for lunch. House loved to use his wallet to buy lunch—it was a tradition. And if House wasn't in Wilson's office by two o'clock, he was either consumed with his case and wouldn't be eating until it was solved, or Wilson had done something wrong to piss House off. He was sure that it wasn't the latter, but he also knew that House currently had no patients. After a brief debate, a longing glance to his lunch that he'd brought and a heavy sigh, Wilson stood up and resigned himself to hunting for House.

Not in his office or the conference room (and Cameron, when asked, said that she hadn't seen him since this morning). Cuddy's office, the clinic, the nurse's station, the roof, the boiler room in the basement, and random coma patients' rooms all came up with similar results. Wilson was starting to wonder if House had just gone home when he ran into Cuddy in the hallway.

"Wilson!" she said, a smile spreading over her face as she slowed to a stop. Her hand held a stack of charts. "Have you seen House?"

"No," Wilson said, shaking his head. "I was actually just looking for him."

Cuddy brushed hair out of her eyes. "Oh. Well, let me know if you find him, okay? And don't forget the meeting tonight!"

"I won't," Wilson promised, and Cuddy nodded before continuing to walk down the hallway. He sighed, running through House's hiding places again and mentally crossing them all off. Oh, well. He'd eat his lunch alone in his office, then.

But when he opened the door to his office, he found House sitting in his chair.

"House!" he said, watching House type away on his laptop. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting here," House replied. His fingers tapped out a few more keys, and then his pinkie hit the enter button. There was a suspended silence.

"What did you just do?" Wilson demanded, coming around to the other side of the desk and yanking his laptop away from House. He stared at the screen, his eyes darting around the windows on the monitor and piecing together what damage House had done.

"I'm hungry," House said.

Wilson was still staring at the laptop, disbelieving. "House," he said. "You—you just... I just made up with Julie this morning!"

"Oops. Sorry," House said, not sound sorry at all. "I'm still hungry."

Exhaling slowly, Wilson pressed a hand to his forehead and tried to forestall thoughts of what coming home tonight was going to be like. He'd deal with it then. "You are such a bastard," Wilson muttered as he shut the laptop.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," House said, standing up and grabbing his cane. "Wicked, tricksy and false. Let's get going."

"What's the big rush? You got a hot date?" Wilson asked as they left his office.

House grinned. "You have no idea."

OoO

Exam room four was down in the clinic, one of House's least favorite places in the hospital. He limped through the waiting room to the sounds of crying children and bitchy patients who had been forced to wait a whole _twenty minutes_ to see a doctor, and rolled his eyes. If he hadn't been promised free sex, he would be back in his office with his GameBoy right now. Or watching General Hospital. If Chase was going to keep this up, House was going to have to train him _not_ to schedule things during his soap operas.

He pushed open the door, and was surprised to find the lights on. He'd half expected a replay of the first night.

"You're late," Chase said, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. "It's three thirty."

House shut the door behind him. "I was eating lunch." With a click, the door was shut and locked.

"Of course," Chase sighed.

"Do we have sex now?" House asked. "Because General Hospital is on, and this week, Amy's supposed to make up her mind between the father of her triplets and her stepfather. Very exciting."

"No," Chase said flatly. "We're not going to have sex. You were late."

House snorted. "You picked the wrong guy to seduce if you're looking for promptness. I'm not even on time for people I like."

"Too bad," Chase said. "If you want sex, you're going to have to be on time for it."

"Doesn't that break one of your rules?" House asked. "The one about refusing a move?"

"No," Chase said. "This is a new move—pawn to C3. I'm cancelling."

House opened his mouth to go forward and take Chase's pawn and put him in check again, but then he realized that Chase's knight was waiting to take him if he moved there. Shit. Bishop for a pawn was not a good move. If he didn't move that bishop, that pawn was going to take him next move. He'd have to take it all the way back to D6 to escape the series of pawns that Chase had set up. And one of _his_ pawns was about to be taken. Shit. Now he was going to have to start playing defensively. One pawn down wasn't—

He jumped at the sound of the door slamming, and he suddenly discovered that the room was empty. Chase had left. House scowled as he realized that he was actually _disappointed_ that he had to wait to make his next move.

OoO

Chase shut the door behind him and felt a great weight lift from his chest. Thank God.

This was getting easier with every move that he made. He might get through this. He'd certainly caught House's interest, which was half the obstacle, and the only thing he had left to do was not completely screw up the sex. Which would not happen today. He would not have sex with House today. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, but not today. That was all that mattered. One day at a time, things would work out.

They had to.

House couldn't find out.

But if all House cared about was sex, then it wouldn't be a problem. Chase could do that. Maybe it would become easier each time, a little less embarrassing. A little less disgusting. And if he could manage that, then his job would be safe, Vogler would be happy, and House would never be any wiser. Just stay focused on the sex. Focus on the sex.

But not today.

Thank God.


	5. Let's Get It Started

**Untouchable  
Chapter 5  
**_(Let's Get It Started)_

"What is _this?_"

Wilson looked up, almost dreading what House had to say this time but was surprised to see that it was merely a pamphlet for a conference. Upon closer inspection, it was the oncologists conference that he'd been invited to speak at next week. That would be what House was pissed about—god forbid Wilson go anywhere without first getting House's consent. He scowled.

"Yes, I'm going to a conference," Wilson said, grabbing the pamphlet out of House's hand. "I wasn't aware that you had to sign my permission slip."

House snatched it back. "It's two weeks long," he said. "Who am I supposed to consult on cases? Who's going to buy my groceries?"

"You can consult one of the _other_ oncologists in this hospital," Wilson told him. He tried to grab the pamphlet back from House, but House was too quick for him. "I'm sure they'll all be willing to help you."

"They're idiots," House said, tucking the pamphlet in his pocket for further review.

Wilson stopped and frowned. "Did you just give me a compliment?"

"Because I told you that you're the best oncologist in this hospital?" House asked. "Sure. If you'd never met the _other_ oncologists in this hospital. And what about my groceries?"

"Remember that thing we talked about last night? Online grocery shopping?" Wilson said. "Try that. Just order an industrial-sized box of Spaghetti O's and a carton of TV dinners. You'll be set for three weeks." Wilson glanced at the clock. "Why are you here so late?"

"You have a meeting with the board tonight," House said. "And afterwards, you're going to give me the juicy details. As you give me a ride home."

Wilson shut his laptop, preparing to pack up for the night. "I did give you a ride this morning, didn't I?" he said to himself. "I'll try to be quick in the meeting so you won't have to wait too long. Sorry."

"You should let me come in with you," House suggested.

Wilson snorted. "Yeah. Great idea. I'll bet Vogler would love that."

House sulkily agreed to wait outside the meeting room until Wilson had finished—but he made no promises about eavesdropping. Wilson decided to let it go, figuring that Vogler would be discussing more financing matters, as the end of the fiscal year was coming up and Vogler wanted to make an impression. House would be bored after fifteen minutes and pull out his iPod or his GameBoy or something.

Wilson sidled into a chair, next to Brown and directly opposite of Cuddy. He gave them both brief smiles and set his messenger bag on the floor. The room smelled of coffee, but looking around, Wilson saw only an unused coffee pot in the corner—it must have been in the previous meeting, then. Damn. He was starting to feel the strain of his long day.

"Good evening," Vogler said, standing up from his chair at the end of the table. The few conversations that had been going on died away as everyone turned to look at Vogler. "I hope that tonight's meeting won't carry on too long; I know we all want to be home and in bed."

There was a general chorusing of agreement and tired nods.

Vogler nodded, and talking ceased. "I have only one point to make tonight, and we will discuss the matter over the next three meetings before we come to a decision." He pulled out a manila folder.

Across the table, Cuddy sighed. Wilson looked at her in confusion. It was unusual for Cuddy to give such obvious clues to her mental state, and even Hernandez was refraining from rubbing his forehead in exhaustion. A four day deliberation period meant that it was something major and controversial. The last time they'd had one of these had been over a year ago, when the cafeteria staff had gone on strike. If Cuddy was sighing, it must mean that she already knew what was coming—and that it was something really big.

"I believe that something has to be done about our free clinic," Vogler said.

Beside him, Brown asked, "You want to renovate it?"

"In a matter of speaking," Vogler said. "I have seen countless free clinics across the nation shut down, because the funding bottoms out. People are not generous with their money, and least of all to an inner-city free clinic. I don't want to gamble with something this large—either people pay to use the clinic, or we close it."

The stunned silence in the room was profound.

Cuddy spoke up this time. "We're _not_ an inner-city free clinic. That clinic is a part of our hospital, funded by the donations of our patients and their families. It is in no danger of closing down."

A murmur of consent went around the room, Wilson one of them. House was probably outside having a field day.

But Vogler shook his head. "But if we started charging, even at a discounted price, think of how much money we could save. We could buy three new MRI machines, renovate every single locker room in this hospital, and _still_ have money left over."

"There _is_ another free clinic two blocks away from here," Nguyen admitted from further down the table.

Hernandez grunted. "Yeah, but their x-ray machine's broken. That clinic may be open now, but in five years..."

"This is a major city," Vogler pointed out. "There are plenty of free clinics in the area."

"And we close it down, what would we do with the extra hospital wing?" Wilson asked, fully aware of the fact that he was opening a can of worms that probably should have waited until tomorrow to be discussed. "It would be a fortune to demolish."

"We could renovate it," Vogler said. "I'm sure that there are plenty of departments who could use the extra space."

Nguyen shook her head. "It's inconveniently located. The only department that could use it is Pathology, and they've already got more room than they need."

"ICU could use some overflow rooms," Kline piped up, frowning at Nguyen. "We'd be glad to take it."

"So would Pediatrics," Finnegan said. "The kids would love the views."

"The clinic's near the gardens," Hernandez said, looking around the room. "I know dozens of my patients would love to visit them without the hassle of the escalator."

"Geriatrics has more space that they know what to do with," Nguyen said, rolling her eyes.

Wilson sat back and closed his eyes, trying to drown out the arguing that was commencing. He really should have waited for tomorrow night to point that out.

OoO

"House!" Cuddy called.

House, who was walking out of the clinic after stealing a large number of lollipops from the nurse's station, sped up and hurried to reach the elevator. Cuddy caught up to him quickly.

"House, we need you here," Cuddy said, frowning at him. In her hands, she held a wad of blue slips and a wad of yellow slips. "A judge at the campus pool center collapsed, LP revealed a virulent form of bacterial meningitis."

"Well, you've got it diagnosed. Don't need me," House said. He tried to walk away, but Cuddy grabbed his arm.

"Twenty five hundred people at the pool center were exposed," Cuddy said, giving him a warning look. "They're being bused to neighboring hospitals."

House shifted to his other foot. "And that's a problem of resources, not diagnostics. I have a patient."

"No you don't," Cuddy said. "You are a doctor in this hospital—act like one. And take these pills." She handed him a small cup with two pills in it.

House stared at the two pills and then swallowed them dry. Overhead, a loudspeaker blared. "You are in a quarantined area. Please remain calm and stay in line. A doctor will see you shortly. When you see a doctor, you will receive a blue slip or a yellow form. Patients with blue forms must immediately enter the parking lot..."

He spotted his team working diligently with various people, and Wilson over in a corner with a stack of slips in either hand and a smile on his face. Idiot. He would be smiling during a meningitis pandemic.

OoO

Half an hour later, House had himself a patient. He rounded up Chase, Cameron and Foreman and trooped them all back to the conference room to discuss what could be behind a fever, rash and neck pains besides meningitis. He'd won himself an hour to figure it out from Cuddy, but he had no doubt that if he kept his team doing tests and generally running around the hospital, he'd be able to squeeze another three out of her.

"It's meningitis," Foreman said predictably. "This is a waste of time."

"Wrong," House said. "Next?"

"Do an LP for brain infections," Cameron suggested.

House almost said yes, but a thought occurred to him. "Bad idea," he decided. "We're never going to get a bed in this mess. Something that doesn't require begging the nurses."

"We could get a gurney," Chase said. "The lab isn't going to be overrun, and it shouldn't be too hard to get a hold of the equipment."

"Did you _see_ the line at the nurse's station?" Foreman asked. "We'll use our whole hour just waiting in line."

"I'll wait," Cameron volunteered. "You don't need a gurney to get blood, and we can get a good history in the meantime."

"Do it," House said. "And give her some rifampin, just in case."

He watched all three stand up, exchanging varying looks of exasperation. House thought for a split second, reviewing what he'd just sent his ducklings to do, and then he made a decision. Reaching behind him and grabbing his red tennis ball, House threw it and watched as it hit the back of Chase's head. Chase whirled around, grabbing the back of his head and looking around for the source of the problem. House had counted to three before Chase's eyes landed on the ball, and it was a split second later that his eyes were fixed on House.

"Stay," House said.

Cameron and Foreman both gave Chase strange looks as they left, and Chase avoided them by bending over and picking up the ball. As the door shut and the room fell silent to the din of the hallway, Chase looked up and threw the ball back to House.

"You can't keep holding me back," Chase said as House caught the ball in his outstretched hand. "It looks suspicious."

House snorted. "What are they gonna suspect?"

"Never mind," Chase sighed. "What do you want?"

"Bishop to E2," House said. "Your father's dying. He told me not to tell you, but..." He shrugged loosely. "You know me. Can't help myself."

Chase raised an eyebrow. "No lying, remember? That's a bad one, even for you. My dad—"

"Wasn't even registered for that SLE conference—he was here to see Wilson," House said.

"Why would he come to see Wilson?" Chase asked. "One of his old poker buddies was an oncologist. It'd be a waste of money to fly all the way to the States. And there's a number of oncologists in the States who are better than Wilson. That doesn't even make sense."

House bounced his cane, his eyes fixed on Chase. "Did you notice what he ate when he was here? Macrobiotic diet."

"Lots of people are doing that," Chase said, shaking his head. "It's healthy, and he's not getting any younger."

"Yeah," House said, rolling his eyes. "And it's all the rage in the rest homes to get a blue dot tattooed on your collarbone. Harrison Ford got his last week."

"You're lying," Chase said stolidly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Nope," House said. "No can do. Against the rules, remember?"

"Then why would you tell me now?" Chase asked. "Something this juicy, you'd have told me the day after my father left. You don't have that kind of self control."

House stopped bouncing his cane. "Call your stepmom. Ask her. Or better yet, go to Melbourne Rheumatology Center's website—you won't see your dad listed as one of their doctors anymore. He went on medical leave a month ago."

"I don't believe you," Chase said, each syllable carefully pronounced.

"Too bad," House replied.

Chase glared at him. "Was that all? Or did you want to try to tell me that Cameron's my half-sister, too?"

House rolled his eyes. "Drama queen. Go play doctor, call your stepmom on your cigarette break."

If it were possible, Chase would have slammed the door behind him as he left.

OoO

It was an hour and a half before House had his whole team back in his office. Suspiciously, Cuddy had not been sighted anywhere within the vicinity of his office and House was quick to shut the blinds and turn the lights off, as if it would deter her from checking the room. When Foreman walked in the room, closely tailed by Cameron and Chase, House was sitting in his chair behind his desk with his feet propped up. He waited patiently for them to assemble themselves before asking.

"Well?" he said with an expectant stare.

Cameron spoke up. "LP came back negative, but she started coughing up blood, so we gave her a camera pill. The footage just got back."

"We figured that you'd want to watch it regardless of what we said we'd found," Foreman interjected, sounding slightly resentful about this. He held up a DVD in his right hand.

Chase shifted his weight and said nothing.

"Excellent," House said, holding out a hand.

He started up his computer and popped in the DVD, and while it loaded, he rummaged through his desk until he found a bag of Reese's Pieces and tore it open. Silence descended over his office as the video began to play. First came the tongue, the esophagus, down into the stomach, the pancreas, the small intestine...

"Right there!" he said, leaning forward and pausing it. "Hang on." Back a few frames. "That's it. There's our money shot."

"I don't see anything," Foreman said. He was standing behind House, one hand on House's chair (which House was going to knock off at any second), and he leaned a little closer to see the screen.

"If you have to squint to see that ginormous thing on the right side of her intestine, you need to go get some glasses," House said, eating a handful of candy before he continued. "Either that, or you need to get a new medical degree."

"I see it!" Cameron said. "That Dieulafoy?"

"We can burn it off," Chase said, speaking up for the first time. "But it doesn't relate to her other symptoms, unless it's a precursor for something else."

"Could be intestinal intussusceptions," Foreman suggested.

"That doesn't fit," Cameron said. "What about stomach cancer?"

"No abdominal pain," Chase countered. "And we would have seen something in the video, with symptoms like hers."

"Bone cancer," House said suddenly.

His team stared at him for a second as they all though about the idea.

Foreman nodded slowly. "It works with the meningial symptoms—rash, fever, neck pain..."

"You two go prep the mermaid," House said, pointing to Chase and Cameron. "And Foreman gets to stand in line for a room."

Three heads nodded around him, and one by one, they stood up. Foreman left first, no doubt eager to get his place in line to avoid waiting longer than he had to. Cameron made her way to the door shortly after, and Chase pulled something from his pocked, dropped it on House's desk, and then followed Cameron. The door shut behind him, and Chase didn't look back.

House frowned at the piece of folded paper on his desk. He picked it up, unfolded it, and saw that it was a printout of the list of the head doctors of Alice Springs Rheumatology Center, sans Rowan Chase. At the top of the paper, in red pen, Chase had written, "Pawn to E5. Fuck you, House."

House moved the pawn diagonally and took his own pawn off the board.

OoO

Foreman had reached the front of the line at long last. The hallways were absolute chaos, filled with wandering patients and shouting nurses and doctors vying for the next spot in line. Madness. But here he was, at the front of the line after waiting patiently for his turn, and it had all been for nothing.

"Come on," he implored, knowing that the woman behind him was getting impatient with his begging. "You know I can't do a bone marrow aspiration in the hallway!"

"And I can't give you a procedure room," Brenda said in clipped tones.

"Please. I just need something at least close to a sterile environment," Foreman tried, knowing what House would say if he came back and tried to tell him that there were no rooms available.

"I need ten more nurses," Brenda snapped. She folded her arms over her chest, looking even more irritated than usual. Her mouth opened to call up the next person, but Foreman cut her off.

"Brenda, listen!" he said, hoping that using her name might do some good. "Listen. She'll die."

Brenda looked at him, and it was clear that she was done with him. "At least she'll have a bed, then," she said. "Next!"

Foreman was about to protest again, but an idea hit him and he shut his mouth. _The_ _morgue_.

OoO

Chase was walking to his doom. Terror coursed through him like a bad infusion of blood, reaching every inch of his body and rushing through him. His hands were shaking. _PAWN TO H5—MORGUE D NOW_, the page had read. It was time. And he wasn't ready.

His feet were tracing the hallways automatically, running over different colors of tile without seeing. His stomach was a bowl of gelatin that was about to come spilling, ripping apart at any second. But Chase told himself that it would be okay, that you couldn't mess up sex. Sex was simple. All he had to do was shut his eyes, slip in and out and pretend he was somewhere else, anywhere else, and then wait for it to be over.

But as he pushed open the door to the morgue, it didn't seem so simple. What if he...

"About time you got here," House said, standing next to a wall of cabinets. Cabinets of dead people.

Chase grabbed his shoulders and shoved him against the wall. "Shut up."

And then it all became really, really simple.


	6. I Hate Everything About You

**Untouchable  
Chapter 6  
**_(I Hate Everything About You)_

The morgue (Morgue C, to be exact) was dark and cold, and Foreman had to admit that it was pretty creepy. Who liked to be in a roomful of dead bodies? Even Cameron was a little twitchy. But Mary, their twelve-year-old patient, didn't seem all that affected by it. Foreman thought that maybe she was just trying to forget the fact that they were going to work on her on the same table that dead bodies were usually processed on. The only thing she ever said regarding the morgue was, "Are there dead people in those cabinets?"

To which Foreman answered, "I hope that's who's in there." That had earned him a glare from Cameron.

"Just be calm," Cameron said as she wiped down Mary's leg with an alcohol pad. "Relax."

"Okay," Mary said, taking a deep breath.

Silence descended over the morgue as Foreman prepped the needle. Cameron waited for a moment, and then she realized that she was hearing something. Something rhythmic, something pounding. She frowned and tried to listen harder. It sounded... like...

"Oh my God," she whispered, realizing what she was hearing.

"What?" Mary asked. "Hey, do you hear that?"

Foreman exchanged a quick glance with Cameron. "It's nothing. We're right next to the laundry room—that's just the dryers running."

"It's two people having sex," Mary said, rolling her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't tell your boss."

Cameron sighed, wondering which idiot interns were in Morgue D. They could lose their jobs, if anyone found them. And this was half the reason that on-call rooms were built, so that wayward interns could safely screw each other behind the comfort of a locked door. She had half a mind to go over there and open the door, usher them back up to the main floor and give them a lecture about propriety.

But as their volume increased, Cameron decided that they would probably be too busy to even notice that she was in the room, and she didn't have a desire to see naked people right now. She tried to talk over the noise.

"So when did you start diving, Mary?" she asked.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

But Mary answered. "I was seven years old, and I was at a local pool. My dad taught me to do a basic dive, and I was so good that he enrolled me in classes. I just went from there."

"Wow," Cameron said. "That's five years of practice—you must be really, really good now."

Mary shrugged. "I guess so."

"Try not to move, okay?" Foreman said, putting a hand on her shoulders. "I'm going to put the needle in. It's going to pinch a little bit, but I'm going to try to be as fast as I can."

"All right," Mary said. She sucked in a breath.

"Is everyone else on your diving team the same age as you?" Cameron asked as Foreman put in the needle.

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow," Mary said, her body stiffening as the needle went in.

"Hang on," Foreman said, plunging the needle deeper.

"Mary, tell me about your diving team," Cameron tried again as the pounding began to speed up.

Mary had her teeth gritted as she answered. "They're all—ow—older than me. Ow. Is this almost over?"

"Almost," Foreman promised.

"Are there any cute boys?" Cameron asked, trying to keep Mary talking as she heard someone moan, and she prayed that neither one of them was a screamer. "I had the biggest crush on a seventeen-year-old named Jared when I was in middle school."

OoO

Chase was dressing silently over in the corner, not saying a word or looking over to where House sat. The lights in the morgue were dim enough that he couldn't tell what Chase's expression was, but he could see well enough to notice that Chase's hands were trembling as slipped into a set of scrub pants. His breathing, erratic and shallow, echoed off the walls of the morgue, and House wondered if Chase realized it. The only thing that Chase seemed to want was to get out of here as quickly as he could, which was a puzzle for House. Chase was running away after having sex instead of basking in the post-coital glow--and he was in this because he'd been "secretly been in love" with House for God knew how long.

Strange.

"You're running away," House said, watching Chase pull on his sneakers.

Chase said nothing, but his hands slipped on the laces as he tried to tie his shoes. Two tries later, he had them tied and was walking towards the door.

"And you're about to leave your clothes behind," House called after him.

Stopping, Chase muttered a curse. He turned around and grabbed his shirt and pants (one of them had missed—House was sure that it had been Chase—and the shirt would have to be washed before being worn again) off the floor of the morgue. Then he walked back to the door, yanked it open, and left House alone.

After stopping to consider it for a minute, House decided that Chase was probably still pretty upset about hearing that his father was dying and hadn't bothered to tell him about it. Hopefully tomorrow, Chase would be feeling better, and it wouldn't feel like he was trying to kill him when they were having sex.

OoO

His team was waiting for him by the time House had made it back to his office, and impatiently at that.

"Where were you?" Foreman asked as soon as House had come through the door.

House looked at him for a second, and was about to make some witty reply when he realized that Foreman had a file in his hand. Ignoring Foreman's question, he snatched the file and opened it, scanning it until he found what he was looking for. "That was fast," he said. He handed the file back to Foreman. "Did you practice stealing beds before you decided to move up to cars?"

"We didn't wait in line for a bed—we went down to the morgue," Cameron said with a frown. She was oblivious to the fact that Chase's head shot up in horror and  
House's eyes widened slightly. "There were some stupid interns down there."

House recovered and rolled his eyes. "What, were they doing the nasty in dark corners?"

"Yeah, nice and loud," Foreman said. "You would have loved it."

"Really?" House asked. "Did they say anything interesting?"

"No," Cameron said, looking exasperated. "Just lots of grunting and thumping and moaning."

"No screamers?" House pressed, ignoring the fact that Chase was staring at him in astonishment.

Foreman looked fed up. "No, there were no screamers," he snapped. "Can we get to the medicine?"

"Do you think all the on call rooms were taken?" House wondered, enjoying the frustration that he was making Foreman's jaw clench. "But the morgue could be interesting. Who knows what strange kinks these young things have?" House said, catching Chase's eye for a split second.

Chase didn't appear to be much of an actor. He went pink and looked away.

"House!"

Four heads turned to see Cuddy standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her hair had been pulled back into a messy ponytail with a rubber band, and she looked a good deal more hassled than she had this morning. She was also staring at House like she wasn't sure whether she wanted to hug him or punch him—but Cuddy being Cuddy, did neither.

"I gave you an hour to work on your patient," she said, staring at the folder accusingly. "You got four. And unless you can tell me that your patient's brain is going to explode in ten seconds, all four of you are going back down to the lobby with all the _other_ doctors in this hospital."

There was a moment of silence, and House realized that Chase, Cameron and Foreman were waiting for him to say something spectacularly untrue but believable that would earn them a little more time to work on their patient.

"She doesn't have cancer," House offered, holding up the folder as proof.

Cuddy pointed to the door. "Get down there. Right now."

It was at that moment, right after Cuddy had finished speaking and just before House was about to slip in some other flimsy remark in an attempt to stall, that three pagers went off. Cuddy's arm dropped and House shut his mouth as his team grabbed the pagers in unison. He waited a second for them to read the message.

"It's Mary," Cameron said.

Three heads looked from House, to Cuddy, and then back to House.

House rolled his eyes. "Go on," he said, gesturing towards to the door with his hand impatiently. "Go save her life."

Cuddy looked miffed, but stepped back and allowed Cameron, Chase and Foreman to file out of the room. She gave House a pointed look.

"Aw, come on, Cuddy," he pleaded. "I gotta wait for them to get back!"

Cuddy stared at him. "Lobby. _Now._"

"But her head could be exploding!" House protested. "And she was bleeding like crazy a while ago."

"And that was probably because you gave her a drug cocktail to make sure that you didn't have to help in the lobby," Cuddy said with a scowl.

House rolled his eyes, and could see her smirking in the reflection of the glass as he pushed open the door to his office and began walking towards the lobby. He glared at the reflection, even though she couldn't see it, and hoped that his team would bring him back something juicy about their patient.

OoO

The lobby was dull and monotonous, but House had spotted Cuddy making surreptitious checks every fifteen minutes to ensure that House was dutifully passing out yellow and blue slips. Ten feet to his right, Wilson was still going strong with his smile and clipboard. Unbelievably, after what had to have been at least five hours after the incident at the pool, there were hundreds of people still milling about the lobby. Here and there, House could see attempts at lines, but mostly, people just formed a swarming bubble around a doctor, vying for attention like they were brokers at the stock market.

"Hey Wilson!" House shouted over the din, and Wilson looked up from the woman that he was handing a cup of pills to. "Over here!" House beckoned, and his obedient puppy nodded.

"Cuddy got you to start working," Wilson said conversationally after fighting his way through the crowds of people. Once he made it to House's side, he reached out and pulled a man towards him and began instructing him to move his head up and down.

"Got a patient," House said. "Rash, neck pain, fever."

Wilson tore off a blue slip. "Take these, and you can go. I'm not even going to bother to ask if it was meningitis. Who ever heard of a case of meningitis where the symptoms were the exact same as the ones described in the books?"

"Pain in the neck was side to side, not up and down," House said, finishing his exam of a perky teenage girl and handing her a cup of pills. "Go, be free. And the LP confirmed that it wasn't meningitis. She had a swollen blood vessel, too."

"Are you looking for a differential?" Wilson asked. He tore off a yellow slip of paper. "Elevators are over there—go to the second floor for a CT scan."

"Yeah," House said. He waited for the woman in front of him to take the thermometer out of her mouth. "Ducklings got paged earlier, haven't come back to tell me what's wrong."

"You check for cancer?" Wilson asked.

House nodded. "Yep—nothing. You're going with the parade up to the second floor," he said to the heavy-set woman before him. "Have a nice trip. Next!"

"House?"

Turning around, House found his team standing behind him.

"Excellent. Break time," House said, casting Wilson a glance. "Coming?"

Wilson shook his head. "You ruled out cancer. I'll stay here and cover for you when Cuddy comes looking."

"Here," House said, giving the pad of blue slips to a random patient. Then he turned to his team, who followed him as he walked away from the chaos of the lobby and down a quieter hallway. "So, what's up with Marge? She do anything exciting?"

"She had an absence seizure," Foreman said.

House nodded and swung a left, increasing his pace and leaning more heavily into his limp as he did so. "That's interesting enough. Are you sure that it was an absence seizure?"

"Absolutely," Foreman said, and House knew without looking that he was nodding. "She was totally unresponsive and unaware of what was going on around her."

"You do an EEG?" House asked as he finally arrived at his destination. He stopped for a minute, cast a furtive glance around, and then pushed the door open.

"I'll, um, wait outside," Cameron said, staring at the sign that read _Men_.

House rolled his eyes and stuck his head out the door. "Get in here. Trust me, nobody's going to complain. Standing out there, you're practically a homing beacon for Cuddy."

Cameron sighed and went inside the men's restroom. Looking around uncomfortably, she folded her arms over her stomach.

"The seizure frequency is increasing. They're almost constant now," Chase said. "She had five in the last half hour."

"Which tells us..." House trailed off, waiting for someone to finish his sentence. Make sure they were all on the same page before he started firing for a differential.

"It's definitely in the brain," Cameron said, still uneasy. She kept shifting her weight back and forth, and appeared to be restraining herself from looking at the door. "And it's getting worse."

"Could be barbiturate withdrawal," Chase suggested.

"No," Foreman said, leaning against a paper towel dispenser. "It can't be drugs. She's tested at every meet that she competes in."

"A bleed in the brain can cause seizures..." House prompted.

"Rat poison," Chase said. "Could cause neck pain, too."

Foreman snorted. "You think she's eating off the floor of her folks' garage?"

"Doesn't have to be," House said. "It could be intentional."

"Who would poison a twelve-year-old?" Cameron asked incredulously.

"Well, let's see now," House said, pretending to think about it. "There's the eighteen-year-old has-been that she beat out to make the Nationals, the has-been's parents, jealous siblings, sociopathic swim fan, and then there's your plain old garden variety whack job."

"Do you want us to check for intracranial bleeding?" Chase asked.

"With what, a CT scan?" Foreman said. "Not a chance—radiology's swamped."

"If she's bleeding into her brain, she's going to be dead in eight hours," Cameron said.

"Yeah, but so will a meningitis patient without a CT scan," House replied. "We aren't going to win that one."

Chase frowned. "When I was in med school, I had this old professor who—"

"Touched you in the naughty place?" House interrupted, leaning forward to leer at Chase.

Shaking his head, Chase continued. "Before the CT scan was introduced, he specialized in transcranial ultrasound."

House actually stopped and gave it a moment's thought. It was a good idea. "Ancient," he pronounced, "but if there's enough bleeding, it might work. Go do what the guy who didn't specialize in neurology said."

"It was my idea!" Chase protested as Foreman and Cameron left.

House shrugged. "Big whoop. You've got other work to do."

"You know that you can't keep singling me out like this," Chase reminded him, following House as he left the restroom. "Despite what you might think, Cameron and Foreman aren't complete dunderheads. They'll start asking questions."

"Yeah, you told me this morning," House said, dismissing it.

Chase took a few long strides, and quickly adjusted to walking next to House instead of behind him. "Knight to F3. We are never having sex in the morgue again. And we're using condoms next time."

"If you bring them," House said breezily. "Pawn to B6. Do you always have sex like you're trying to kill someone?"

Chase choked. "_What?_"

House stopped before the elevator and pressed the up button. He turned to face Chase. "You. Having angry sex with someone that you're supposedly _in love_ with."

"Well, it might have been the fact that I found out that my father was dying today," Chase said calmly.

The elevator doors opened and they both stepped in. Another man and two nurses came in after them, and then the doors shut before a teenager with a backpack could get on.

"Ew," House said after a minute. "You think about your dad when you're having sex?"

The gentleman in front of House looked over his shoulder.

"I was talking to him," House said, jerking his thumb towards Chase, whose eyes shot down to his shoes. He gave Chase a manly clap on the shoulder. "He's made so much progress."

The elevator doors opened, and the two nurses spilled out in front of House and Chase, hurrying down the hallway. House was expecting to face another tirade from Chase, but when he turned to look, Chase was looking at him strangely.

"Yes?" House asked.

"That man is my _neighbor_," Chase said, his voice slightly strangled.

House stopped, though whether it was to emphasize his point or because they had reached his office, he wasn't sure. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Chase said. "Rudy. He works in HR."

House opened the door to his office and strode in. "Well, you're going to be hot gossip around the neighborhood for a while."

Chase followed. "Thanks for that."

"You're welcome. Remember this?" House asked, stopping before the cardboard box of journals that was sitting on the floor. He swung his cane through the air, letting it hit against the side of the box repeatedly. "You're going to be transporting it."

"To where?" Chase asked, approaching the box.

"Actually, hold that thought," House said, sticking out his cane so that it was just inches short of poking Chase in the chest.

Chase stopped, staring down at the tip of House's cane. He raised his eyes to meet House's. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to wait a few days," House said, lowering his cane and turned around to face the window. He walked around behind his desk and stared down at the chessboard.

Chase was eyeing him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because Wilson's going to a conference," House said.

"Oh," Chase said, this obviously not making any sense to him. Then he turned around and began walking towards the door.

"Hey! I didn't say you could go!" House called after Chase.

But Chase didn't go for the door—his hand went towards the blinds. With a twist of his wrist, the hallway beyond the glass wall of House's office had disappeared, and the room was suddenly a bit darker. Sunlight still streamed through House's back window, and it was almost enough to keep room illuminated.

"I'm castling, kingside rook," Chase said as he walked back to House's desk.

House picked up the pink king and moved it over two squares, and then set the rook to its left. He could hear Chase coming up to join him behind the desk. "Are we going to have office sex? 'Cause Wilson's got a lock on his door, _and_ he's got actual walls."

"No," Chase said. "Not sex. Just this."

House looked up and found Chase standing next to him. Before he could get in a word, Chase's hand were on his shoulders and had his mouth in a kiss.

OoO

Chase was kissing House. He was coming on hard, coming greedy, and House was giving it to him. His brain was moving analytically in the only way that Chase knew how, trying to keep any real emotion from coming in. He thought about how kissing House was quite unlike anyone else he'd ever kissed before, and that it was probably because he was kissing a man. He thought about the fact that his leg was standing in an awkward position. He wondered if Foreman and Cameron were done with the ultrasound of Mary's head. He though that... Fuck, he thought that—concentrate—he thought that he had to change the batteries in his... his... What? He was thinking... not thinking... not...

His brain failed. Suddenly, his mind exploded in a fury of passion and desire and anger—so much anger—and—and he didn't even care. Every fiber of his body was taut, tingling with the need to be touched, to feel skin and he let himself dig deeper. He wanted nothing more than to have this never end, this wave of intensity that seemed to be ripping him apart and putting him back together again. Things were spinning, things were whirling and dipping and insanely rushing—and it didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but flesh, warm flesh that he could feel with his hands and—

"Whoa, easy junior."

House's voice came crashing down over his head like an iron bar.

Chase realized that he was standing there with a half-undressed House, that his hands were around House's neck, that _House's_ hands were on his back.

"Shit," he muttered, before he could stop himself.

And when House simply rolled his eyes and told him to get some self control, Chase was incredibly relieved that House had had the sense to stop him before things had escalated. He wandered away to the vending machines and ate two bags of M&M's before he was certain that his blood sugar wasn't low enough throw his hormones out of whack like that again.


	7. There's A Fine, Fine Line

**Untouchable  
Chapter 7  
**_(There's A Fine, Fine Line)_

House was studying the chessboard. Chase, he had to admit, wasn't a half bad player. What he lacked in subtly and finesse, he more than made up for with the ability to worm his way out of bad situations and somehow come out on top. It was hardly a skill—House blamed it on sheer dumb luck. Chase just managed to squirm his way out of defense, and fumble through offense until he scored somewhere. Nonetheless, he studied the board and noticed how Chase had quickly disbanded his line of rook, bishop and knight with that castling, sensing the looming shadow of his bishop (which House actually _had_ intended to use to knock out at least one of Chase's pieces). But now if he took the knight, there was a bishop waiting to take him. Bishop for a knight was hardly a deal.

He would have to think of another play now.

House was studying the untouched left corner of Chase's pieces when the sound of the door opening made him look up.

"You were right," Foreman said as he came in. "There's a significant bleed in her temporal lobe."

"No poisoning?" House asked as he grabbed his cane, preparing to stand up.

Cameron shook her head. "No. I did a tox screen on her blood, hair and urine, and it was clean. Where's Chase?"

"Lobby," House said, for that was indeed where he'd sent him once Chase had come toddling back to his office with half a bag of M&M's in his hand. After he'd stolen the M&M's, of course.

"We're never going to get a surgeon in this mess," Foreman said.

House stood up. "Oh, ye of little faith. You forget how much Cuddy loves me."

OoO

The pandemic was over. At long last, the scores of patients had been diagnosed and were either on the second floor (where they were now dealing with a severe shortage of beds and medicine) or to the parking lot. Janitors were busily working at the lobby, which had been left in ruins in the wake of the fifteen hundred people who had crowded it for nearly seven hours. Papers, water bottles, coats, candy wrappers, a lone puddle where some kid hadn't been able to make it to the bathroom on time...

House surveyed it with keen eyes.

"Disaster site, isn't it?" Wilson, who was standing next to him, muttered with a sigh. "This is just going to give Vogler more ammunition to close the clinic."

House turned around and began the walk back to his conference room, where his team was hopefully waiting with the news that Mary's surgery was over. Wilson joined him a second later, walking in step with his limp.

"When did you agree to go to this conference?" House asked.

Wilson looked abruptly uncomfortably. "Two days ago. Vogler, uh, managed to score me a slot as one of the keynote speakers."

"Here, pussy, pussy," House called.

"He's sending me to a conference—I haven't sold him my first born child!" Wilson protested. "What was I supposed to say?"

"No?" House suggested.

"Why? It's a great opportunity, House," Wilson said. "This is politics. You'll never get anywhere on principal."

"I have," House said smugly.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "It's a _conference_. You're just mad because I'm not going to be here for two weeks, and didn't deign to ask you about it first."

"It's in _Ohio_," House said scathingly. "What the hell is in _Ohio?_"

"It's at The Ohio State University," Wilson told him primly.

House snorted. "Which is in the middle of a corn field. They could have at least had it at Case Western Reserve."

"Why does it matter where it is?" Wilson asked, sounding annoyed. "You certainly weren't going to tag along. Maybe you didn't read the pamphlet, but it's for _oncologists,_ not nephrologists."

"Yeah, yeah," House said, waving a dismissive hand. "Just don't expect a clean office when you come back."

Having arrived at his office, and Wilson at his, there was a moment of brief silence. Then Wilson muttered something about needing to change the locks on his doors and disappeared into his office, and House pushed open his own door. Turning to look inside, he saw Chase, Cameron and Foreman all sitting around the conference table. On the whiteboard, Cameron had written Mary's symptoms on the board in preparation of another differential.

"Surgery done?" he asked as he passed whiteboard in his quest for the coffee machine.

"Yeah," Foreman said. "Her parents are here, too."

House dumped a used coffee filter into the garbage can and retrieved a new one. He put a scoop of coffee grounds in it, and then began filling the pot with water. "So what could it be?"

Chase sighed. "No toxins, no tumor, no bone cancer."

"Adrenal failure could cause the rash, fever and muscle pain," Foreman said. "Maybe it's some sort of genetic kidney disorder."

"No family history," Cameron said after a second. "And no blood in her urine or—"

"Not yet," Foreman interrupted.

"You want us to do a differential based on symptoms that _might _happen?" Chase asked.

"Got a better idea?" Foreman asked, his tone challenging and ready for a fight.

"Stop it," House said tiredly, switching on the coffee pot. Knowing that there would be coffee in his hands soon made him feel both relieved and impatient at the same time. "Stop looking for things we don't know and focus on what we _do_ know. What do we actually know besides what's up there?" He used his cane to gesture towards the whiteboard, where the symptoms were listed out in black and white.

The room was silent.

"Come on!" House snapped. "How hard can it be to tell me what you already know?"

"She's twelve," Chase said hesitantly.

Cameron jumped on quickly. "She spends a lot of time at the pool, so there's exposure to chemicals."

"She travels a lot," Chase continued, hurrying not to allowing a gap of silence.

"But never out of the country," Foreman added.

House shook his head, knowing that it was useless. They weren't listing the right factors. "What else?"

"She travels on a team," Cameron said. "Lots of exposure to people."

"Someone else on her team would be sick—it isn't viral," House said. "Something else."

"She's got a tutor," Foreman said. "Lots of one-on-one contact with an older person in private."

"Are you suggesting that she's got an STD?" Cameron scoffed. "That's ridicu—" Then she stopped as realization struck.

House nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, bobbing his head.

It took a minute for Chase and Foreman to catch up.

"That's really..." Chase made a face. "Disturbing. She's _twelve_."

In reply, he got a one-shouldered shrug. "Who knows what strange kinks these young things have?"

OoO

House hadn't realized that the sun had set until he was barging through the double doors in front of Cuddy's office. He pushed open the doors and had his mouth opened to make some remark when the dimmed lights and the dark sky beyond Cuddy's window caught his eye. Crap, it was late, wasn't it? Almost time for him to go home.

"What do you want?" Cuddy asked warily from her desk. She was typing on her computer, but unlike Wilson's laptop, House couldn't annoy her by shutting it off with the push of his hand. Although, if he could get behind her desk, he could _accidentally_ knock out the power cord.

But he wouldn't get behind her desk. That was Cuddy territory, her little fortress that was nigh impregnable while she was sitting behind it.

"You got the janitors to clean your desk," House said, indicating the front of her desk with his cane.

Cuddy glared. "Yes."

"You can still sort of see it, though," House told her. He cocked his head and squinted at the desk. "Next time I'll use something more permanent."

"You do that," Cuddy said, sighing. "Was that all?"

House sat down on her couch, taking the opportunity to pull out his bottle of Vicodin. "Got our little mermaid diagnosed—rough night with the boys, and she's got TTP. Didn't want Mommy and Daddy to know she's got to have an abortion. Very grown up twelve-year-olds, nowadays."

"Well, congratulations," Cuddy said dryly. "Do you want me to buy you a victory drink?"

"You've got a meeting." House rolled his neck, resulting in a satisfying series of cracks. "Big debate going on."

Cuddy looked exasperated. "Is _nothing_ a secret in this hospital?"

"You forget who you're talking to," House said with a slight smirk. He popped a Vicodin, expertly swallowing it dry within seconds. "I know everything that goes on in this hospital."

"You'd be surprised what you don't know," Cuddy said mildly, leaning back into her chair and stretching her arms upward. In compliment to House, her back cracked in a quick series of a dozen cracks, and then let her arms fall to her sides and she sighed. "There's a lot that happens around here."

"Wilson's going to a conference," House said, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed her and waited to see her reaction.

Cuddy nodded. "I know. Believe it or not, I do have some sort of reigning powers over my department heads." Before House could even open his mouth to pounce on that sentence, Cuddy closed her eyes and cut him off. "Oh, shut it."

House grinned.

"I know that Vogler's doing him a favor," Cuddy said, opening her eyes. "Get used to it. He's going to be doing a lot of people favors—this is politics, House. Either you play or you lose."

"That's what everyone keeps saying, and yet here I am," House said, his tone more contemplative than bragging.

Cuddy shook her head. "I don't know why you're suddenly off his agenda. I don't trust Vogler farther than I could throw this desk, but if he's decided to lay off of you for a while, just shut up and be grateful for once."

"But that wouldn't be any _fun_," House said with a delighted look. "If he's giving me a break, it means that he's either waiting for something or that someone else is forcing his hand. And he can't touch me for now."

Cuddy said nothing to that, and instead began to pack up her things.

"Ah. Meeting time?" House asked.

Nodding, Cuddy began to shut down her computer and round up a few stray papers across her desk and put them in a stack. "Go home, House," she said. "Go do whatever it is that you do to entertain yourself—no, I don't want to know—and give Vogler a rest. He's not going anywhere anytime soon."

House groaned theatrically as he stood up, knowing that there was no way Cuddy would ever trust him to stay in her office after she'd left. She had also stood up, a folder in one hand for the meeting she was heading to, and gave House a pointed look.

"I'm going, I'm going," he muttered. "There's a reason the cripple never wins the race."

OoO

For the second night in a row, Wilson found himself sitting at a table next to Brown and across from Cuddy. Vogler headed the table, and tonight, there were no mingling conversations about the table. Everyone looked grim and tired, fully prepared for another colossal argument like last night. Wilson cast a despairing glance over to the unused coffee pot, thinking how it would have been really nice if someone had come early and started it. Maybe he'd do that, tomorrow evening.

"Good evening," Vogler said, and heads turned to him wearily. "I hope you're all not too worn out after today's events. I know that a lot of us worked harder than usual to make sure that this crisis passed quickly and safely, and I thank you."

Wilson had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Everyone in the room knew that things like this happened at least once a week, and it was nothing out of the ordinary or worthy of thanks. But Vogler had only been here for a few weeks, and he probably hadn't picked up on this yet. Vogler was used to running a business, not a hospital.

"In a few seconds, I'm going to open the floor to anyone who wants to talk about the free clinic and its future in this hospital, but first let me tell you all that whatever you decide, to close the clinic entirely or to keep it open at a discounted price, this committee will also be in charge of distributing the money that we save," Vogler

said, his gaze going around the room to look each person in the eye as he spoke.

At his statement, a murmur broke out around the room like a kindergarten class. Wilson had to admit that the prospect sounded exciting and at the same time, foreboding. People got vicious when it came to vying for money for their own departments. He could just see the chaos that would stem from _that_.

Cuddy stood up. "If that's all..." she said, her question speaking for itself as she turned her gaze to Vogler.

Vogler nodded and sat down in his chair, giving her his full attention.

Cuddy took in a breath. "I think that last night," she began, "was enough of an example of the problems that closing the free clinic would cause."

The round of chuckles that went around the room was enough to break the tension that Vogler had unwittingly imposed.

"So," Cuddy continued, smiling slightly, "I believe that our only option is to begin charging our patients at a discounted rate. While we certainly are not the only free clinic in the city, or in the vicinity of Princeton, we _are_ without a doubt the best. People will still come, because people will pay for what they want."

Wilson noted, with a small flare of annoyance, that Cuddy had phrased it as 'their only option'. Not that they really had the option of standing up to Vogler, especially on something that was, admittedly, rather petty, but isolating a single choice was no way to gain support. Unless, he thought for the first time, Cuddy had said that on purpose. This could be some was of subtly manipulating them into remembering that Vogler was not the nice guy that he fronted himself as.

Nguyen stood up, fingertips balanced on the edge of the table in preparation for battle. "People may pay for what they want," she said, "but is that really applicable to the people who cannot afford to pay for what they want? By charging people to use our clinic, we are sentencing the people that this clinic was originally intended for to less than acceptable care. This clinic was not opened for those who can afford the normal rates of hospitals."

"What are you suggesting?" Brown asked, even though the entire room knew it.

"I suggest that we find money elsewhere," Nguyen said confidently. "And continue to keep the clinic as a free place."

The silence that met this statement was so profound that Wilson thought if Cuddy hadn't just orchestrated this thing, he'd eat his own briefcase.

OoO

Water droplets ran down his body, thousands of them absorbing the cold of his skin and giving him warmth. The sound of running water, which sounded so far away, maybe a neighbor's, echoed in his ears like rain on a tin roof. Wet hair was plastered to his skull, the suds of shampoo having long ago been rinsed out, and his eyes still burned from where it had run down over his face. He couldn't see anything—that was the steam from the shower, the frosting of the glass, he told himself.

Chase wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting in his shower, and he didn't care. It had been a while before he realized that he was showering in his shirt and boxers, and even when he'd looked down and found sodden cloth clinging to his body, he hadn't had it in him to take it off. What did it matter? There had been the rhythmic motions of washing his hair, the feeling of being pounded by millions of tiny drops of water, the sound of liquid spattering against the floor, and then he was on the floor. He didn't feel dizzy, just tired. And hollow. He wondered how he was going to go to work tomorrow and find it in himself to care about other people.

It was strange to consider the difference between self-proclaimed and reality. In the former, you had a choice in the matter. And if you grew up and realized that you had been wrong, that maybe what had wanted really wasn't, you could go back and fix it. But when the cold hammer of reality struck down and bashed in a head, that was it. No turning back, no matter how much growing up you'd done.

He wasn't sad that his father was dying. It was just a strange feeling.


	8. Wait

**Untouchable  
Chapter 8  
**_(Wait)_

It was Sunday. And this Sunday, in about four hours, Wilson was getting on a plane to Ohio and wouldn't be returning for two weeks. What you could possibly discuss about oncology for fourteen days straight, House really didn't know, but when he'd tried to ask Wilson this, he'd been blown off. And that stupid pamphlet he'd stolen had done nothing as far as giving an itinerary, and the website link that it had given only provided further instructions on arriving at the campus and how to maneuver yourself about. So, needless to say, House was...

"Unhappy," he proclaimed as he strolled into the conference room. "I am very unhappy."

Foreman took a sip of his coffee, not even slightly curious.

"Extremely upset," House continued, when neither Cameron nor Chase asked him why. "Overwrought and distraught. Between the devil and the deep blue sea. Up a tree. Up the creek without a paddle. Most grieved in a—"

"House!" Chase finally snapped. "Either tell us or shut up."

Rolling his eyes, House began to venture towards the coffee. "My dear friend has departed this world. He will be missed."

"Who died?" Cameron asked, setting down her cup and watching him. "House?"

"Wilson," House said tragically.

Foreman snorted. "He's at a conference, House. I'm sure you can survive without him for two weeks."

"Wilson's at a conference?" Cameron asked.

"Yeah," Chase and Foreman replied at the same time. They looked at each other, surprised, and then Foreman glared and Chase went back to his crossword puzzle.

House smirked.

Cameron's forehead creased in a frown. She looked like she wanted to say something, but merely sighed and shook her head. "No new case?" she asked House.

"Hah," House said. "We've done _three_ this week. If we keep going at this rate, Cuddy might start to think that I like my job or something." He made a sideshow out of pouring his coffee, holding the cup in one hand and lifting the pot at least a foot and a half above the cup as he poured, bringing it back down in time to tip it back up and cut off the flow. Setting the pot back on the burner, House grabbed the creamer and shook it loosely over the mug in his hand, and then used a stirrer to swirl it around.

Coffee. Heavenly.

"Not that you'll care," Cameron said, "but Mary's diving team sent you balloons and a thank you card."

"I don't," House said. He took another sip of coffee. "Who's going to do my clinic duty today?"

There was a grudging debate over this. In the end, House nominated Foreman to do it and Foreman, partially tired of arguing and partially wanting something to do, finally agreed. And with this settled, House retreated into his office and Cameron and Chase began doing... whatever. House didn't particularly care, until he was finished with his coffee and was looking for something to do, because then he would start looking for Chase. He needed someone to carry those files into Wilson's office, and it would also provide a great opportunity for him to trap Chase in a room with a lock and four solid and opaque walls. When he was finished with his coffee, of course.

He got bored fast. There was nothing to do. Wilson's presence was missing, and even though House wouldn't have even seen him by this time of the morning, it lurked in his mind unpleasantly. Just knowing that he couldn't go next door and strike up a conversation or play paper football was enough to get him agitated, even if he didn't particularly feel like talking or playing games at the moment. And there were thirteen more days to go, he thought resignedly. He needed a new project. Something to keep him entertained while Wilson was gone—other than figuring out what Vogler was up to.

House abruptly sat up in his chair, setting his nearly-drained cup of coffee on his desk. In the wake of Chase and his stupid game of Dare Chess, he'd completely forgotten his quest to find out what Vogler was up to. _That_ would be enough to keep him busy for the day.

He stood up and limped into the conference room to pour out the remains of his coffee, and nearly asked Chase what he was doing when he saw him still sitting at the conference table still working on his crossword puzzle, but thought better of it. Instead, he passed by without a word and proceeded to dump out the contents of his mug, rinse it in the sink, and then stuck it back in the cupboard. And disturbingly, as he walked out of the room, he felt proud of himself for not saying anything to Chase.

OoO

The best way to figure out what Vogler was up to was to actually get into his office and poke around for a bit. Unfortunately, House knew that unlike with Cuddy, there would actually be serious consequences if Vogler were to walk in on him—he was taking advantage of this little reprieve, and didn't want to ruin it until he'd at least figured out the reason why he was getting it. Then he'd love to get caught digging through Vogler's drawers.

But he'd have to settle for second best until then. Which was why he was standing in front of the nurse's station with his hand in his pocket, ready to pull out his wallet like a cop prepared to yank out his shield.

"Brenda," he called, unnecessarily loudly, for Brenda was only standing four feet away, giving instructions to one of the other nurses. She looked over her shoulder impatiently, and she scowled at him, and then returned to her conversation.

House patiently waited for her to finish.

She came over five minutes later and sat down without looking at him. She began typing something up on the computer, and then pulled out a folder to reference to.

"Dearest, darlingest Breanda," House waxed, his voice nearly melodic as he spoke. "What woes have befallen thou today? What troubles have hardened thy brow and wilted thy petals like the final breath of a long dying day, set—"

"What do you want?" Brenda snapped, looking up to him in irritation at long last.

House smiled pleasantly. "I want you to get me gossip. Information. Anything you can find out about a certain person."

Brenda folded her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair, a smirk curling the tips of her smile. "And what's in it for me?"

If his wallet had been able to make a _whooshing_ sound when it was drawn out of a pocket, House would have made it do so. Unfortunately, it didn't, so he had to settle for whipping it out and using a fancy wrist movement to display it.

"Your credit card will be acceptable," Brenda said, holding out her hand.

House opened his wallet. "Keep dreaming, woman. I'll give you..." He laid down five crisp one hundred dollar bills on the counter. "That."

Brenda looked at the bills with mild interest for a moment, and then she looked up to House with an appraising expression. "More. I don't want money, I want manual labor—and making your doctors do more clinic duty isn't going to cut it."

House cringed. "Can't you just take six hundred? Seven hundred? I'll let you have Cameron's parking spot."

"Give me your parking spot," Brenda said. "For a month. And six hundred for the trouble."

"I'm crippled!" House protested. "You didn't get _your_ leg crushed saving puppies from burning buildings!"

Brenda stared at him stoically. "And neither did you. Parking spot and the six hundred."

"But you park on the wrong end of the hospital," House whined, throwing up a last stake of effort. They both knew that he was only stalling, that he wanted this information badly enough to give up his parking spot, but he found it made him feel a little less whipped if he at least put up a bit of a fight.

"Then why don't you ask Radiology to spy for you?" Brenda asked airily, knowing that she had him.

House scowled. He pulled out an extra hundred from his wallet and put it on the counter. "I want anything and everything you hear about Vogler and Cameron. And this had better be worth it."

Brenda collected the money cheerfully. "Trust me," she said, folding the money up and putting it under a paperweight. "We nurses hear a _lot_. And I expect your parking pass by the end of the day, otherwise I keep the six hundred and you get nothing."

"You'll get it. I want daily reports," House ordered, Brenda's smile making this feel like he had come out on the worse end of the deal.

This done, House reviewed his remaining options. He knew that it wasn't Wilson or someone from his team—short of Cameron, but he wasn't going to get anywhere interrogating her until he had some actual dirt on her. The person who stood out most sharply in his mind was Cuddy, especially with her comment last night about there being a lot about the hospital happenings that he didn't know, but... Cuddy hadn't been able to lie to him for years. Right?

Who else liked him? Or, better phrased, who else had some sort of motive to help him and his department? As far as he knew, none of his ducklings had any friends at the hospital, if they had any at all. Foreman might—he'd grown up in a suburb of Princeton. And maybe he was dating someone... Chase probably had a few buddies back in Oz, but House doubted he'd been here long enough to make friends. Not to mention, Chase didn't seem like the type to make friends. And he didn't care about Cameron, because there was no reason for anyone to save her. She'd done it herself.

His only other friend was the night janitor who steadfastly refused to believe that wearing your pants backwards wasn't the latest trend in pop culture. But considering the fact that he occasionally would spend hours mopping the same room, just going in circle after circle, House doubted that he'd gone to Vogler.

Then there was always the possibility that someone was doing this for reasons known only unto themselves, and that it was a person who had never met House and had never been to PPTH. But House didn't like to think about that, because that would mean that this whole search was pointless—and that he'd just blown six hundred bucks and a month of up-front parking for nothing; he shoved that idea to the back recesses of his mind.

He couldn't do anything about Cuddy. Yet. She was untouchable, unless one of Brenda's nurses found out something that House could use for leverage. Wilson was gone—not that House suspected him, but he might have been a useful tool in his search. If nothing else, a good sounding board. Cameron, on the other hand, was well within his grasp. He could easily push her until she broke, and he knew that she was too... Cameron-ish to ever quit or tattle on him to Cuddy. So that was a plan. But other than that, he would have to sit and wait.

He hated sitting and waiting.

OoO

House was sitting in his office, again, when Chase entered. House perked up.

"Hi," Chase said, inclining his head forward slightly.

House pointed towards the board. "I'm wondering whether you're hiding some real skills here, or if you're really just this bad at chess."

"I'm hiding a lot more than you know," Chase said, his tone somewhere in between mysterious and frank. Probably closer to frank.

House frowned. What was _with_ people making cryptic comments about everything that he didn't know?

"Anyways," Chase continued, "Cuddy asked me to bring this to you." He held out a file, and when House simply stared at him and didn't raise a hand to take the folder, Chase sighed and merely set it on the desk, next to his chessboard. "Foreman gave him a stroke this morning in the clinic."

"I keep telling Foreman to tone down his mad gangsta skillz," House said ruefully.

A ghost of a smile graced Chase's face.

House picked up the file, but didn't open it up. "And you're still pissed about your father, no doubt."

The smile left. "Yeah," Chase said. "But don't worry—you'll still get your sex. I'm going to go round up Cameron and Foreman."

"You go do that," House said, standing up and taking the file with him to the conference room.

Flipping open the file, he skimmed over the pages and found nothing particularly interesting about it. Guy ground his teeth and had a stroke—it was most likely family history and some paranoia about his health. But there would be no arguing with Cuddy after the patient that he'd wrested himself yesterday to avoid working in the lobby. So he'd put his ducklings to work for a few hours, maybe run some unnecessary tests just to run up the guy's medical bills, and then he'd send him on his way.

House was about to entirely forget about the case and a differential, when he caught sight of the CT scans. And then things got a little more interesting.

Chase managed to get Foreman and Cameron up to the conference room relatively fast, and House had barely finished writing the two lone symptoms on the whiteboard by the time all three had taken their respective seats.

"Twenty-one year old male," House announced. "Grinding teeth and stroking out. Go."

"Was he grinding his teeth before or after the stroke?" Cameron asked.

"Before," Foreman said. "He was in the clinic with that complaint. I was examining him when he had a stroke, his right pupil blew."

"And he went in for a CT scan, right?" Chase asked.

"Duh," House said. He removed the few choice films and put them up on the light board on the wall, flicking on the switch. "CT shows us two things."

"Ischemia," Foreman said readily. "Death of brain tissue. Means there's been some damage—hopefully not permanent."

"And?" House prompted.

Blank looks.

"That's it," Foreman said. "There's nothing that tells us what the underlying cause is. We've got to do an MRI."

House sighed heavily. "You're looking at the _wrong part of the scan_."

"I'm looking at the brain. What else is there?" Foreman asked.

"The jaw," Cameron said, realization dawning on her face.

Chase frowned in concentration. "The jaw tells us why he had a stroke?"

"No, the jaw tells us why we can't do an MRI," Cameron said. "Unless we want his jawbone flying across the room."

House nodded. "Metal plate. He's had major reconstruction and there's no way we're removing it, so we're forced to be clever. Angiogram for vasculitis, EMG for peripheral neuropathy, tox screen to eliminate drugs, and an echo to rule out a cardiac emboli."

They stood up, prepared to go out and do exactly as their boss had said, but House wasn't finished yet.

"Oh, no," he said, pointing his finger at Cameron. "You're not going anywhere."

Cameron looked at him in confusion. "Why not?"

"You," House said, "are going to research all the causes in the universe of stroking."

"What?" Cameron said, her mouth hanging open in surprise. "That's—it's completely pointless."

House shrugged. "You wanted to save your job—now you can consider whether or not it was worth it."

"The list is going to be five miles long!" Cameron protested.

House gave her a smile. "And that's why you'll start with A. Computer's over there, books are on the bookshelves. Use Google and I'm going to make you write it out by hand."

"But—this is about Vogler?" Cameron said, disbelieving. "You're _punishing _me?"

House said nothing, but began walking towards his office. On his way out, he spun the chair in front of the conference room computer so that it went in circles, round and round, and he watched Cameron slowly walk over to the computer in the reflection of the glass. House pushed open the door to his office and began mentally listing all of the things that he could do to entertain himself before Foreman and Chase returned with their test results.

He had no sooner taken a seat in his chair than Chase came in. And boy, did he look _pissed_.

"Yes?" House asked calmly, watching as Chase approached his desk, clearly trying to keep his emotions in check.

"Why are you punishing Cameron?" Chase demanded.

"Because she was bad," he said, nonplussed.

"How do you know?" Chase asked, his eyes alight with something House had never seen before. "How are you so _certain_ that she ran to Vogler?"

"Why are you suddenly so concerned?" House shot back, his tone a good deal more relaxed than Chase's.

"Because—" Chase stopped and swallowed, shaking his head. "Because what if you're punishing the wrong person? What she's innocent?"

"She's not," House said flatly.

"You saw her talking to Vogler?" Chase asked. "You heard to giving Vogler information, saw her going into his office after hours? What's your _proof?_"

House was honestly surprised by Chase's display. He watched him with sharp eyes. "She's been giving information to Vogler. How I know doesn't matter."

Chase opened his mouth to shoot something back, but then he suddenly stopped. He deflated, his shoulders sagging as he exhaled, and his mouth slowly shut. "Fine," he muttered.

"Hey," House said, snagging Chase's attention before he turned and stormed out of the room. "Pawn to B5. Exam room four, this afternoon."

"What time?" Chase asked resignedly.

House thought about it for a moment. "Dunno. Keep your planner open—I'll page you when I want you."

"Great," Chase said, clearly not thinking that it was.

House nodded, indicating with his hand that Chase was free to go do the tests he'd assigned. But Chase didn't leave, and House realized this a minute later. He looked up in surprise.

"Bishop to H3." Chase said. "I want to let you know that whatever you've been doing these last two day—asking me about my mother, telling me about my father—it doesn't matter to me. I get it. You're trying to push me away so that you can win by forfeit. But you can pull whatever skeletons you like out of my closet, because you're not going to scare me out of the game. So, yeah, ask me about my mother. Hack into my computer, contact some of my friends back in Australia, ask around the local bars—I guarantee you'll find something. But I _don't_ plan on losing this game." Chase glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly.

House let the silence ring for a second, once Chase had finished.

"Did you rehearse that?" he asked finally.

For a second, Chase looked like he might throttle House, but then his face cracked and he merely sighed.

"Good bye, House," Chase said, and he turned and walked out of the office.

OoO

Unfortunately, House's plan to lounge around in his office while his ducklings raced around the hospital was thwarted almost immediately by Cuddy, who had no doubt marched over to House's office as soon as she got a whiff of the news that he was relaxing in his office. She practically frog-marched him down to the clinic, despite House's insistences that Foreman had already _done_ his clinic hours, and had informed nurse Brenda that House was not to leave until he'd seen a minimum of twenty-five patients. And Brenda was unflappable, refusing to surrender even an inch to House's whining and wheedling. She merely held out the file, her expression expectant, like a parent waiting for a child to stop their temper tantrum.

House glared and limped off, barking out the name of his first victim, who needed a pelvic exam. Once the nurses had her set up, House grudgingly looked over to the woman he was examining.

"Hi," she said. The woman had to be eighty. "I'm having vaginal pain."

House reached for his bottle of pills. "Pleasure to meet you."

"My OB/GYN died recently," the woman said as House said down and popped a Vicodin in his mouth. "He's a nice man. Warm hands."

"Not anymore," House said. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. "So, does it hurt when you tinkle?"

The woman nodded vigorously. "Yeah, that's when it's worst."

"Okey-doke," House said, and began inspecting. He poked and prodded his way around, moving fast and hoping to avoid prolonging the exam for a second longer than it had to be. Four years of med school and over twenty of being a doctor, and it was still really, really gross. "You have some vaginal tearing," he said. "No signs of bruising, no indication of trauma or forced entry... Ramona. You naughty girl. You've either got yourself an eighteen-year-old boyfriend or an eighty-year-old with some blue pills."

"Myron just wanted to try them out!" she complained, sounding indignant about the whole situation.

"Lucky you," House said, peeling off the gloves and throwing them in the wastebasket.

Ramona looked disgruntled. "I guess."

"Prefer it if Myron were a little droopier?" House asked sympathetically.

"Maybe a little," Ramona admitted. "We used to hold hands, or read together, or watch Jeopardy! I haven't seen Jeopardy in almost a month!"

"Have you talked to him about this?" House asked, interested despite himself.

Ramona snorted. "_You_ try talking a seventy-three-year-old out of sex. With all these male enhancements, the pressure to put out is incredible! It's worse than high school. If he doesn't get what he wants from me, he'll get it from Connie in the corner condo. She's dying her hair red," Ramona said, leaning forward to whisper something. "Major league slut."

House scribbled down a few things on his scrip pad and tore off the slip. "Here's a prescription for vaginal estrogen suppositories. It'll help with the lubrication."

"Thank you." Ramona took the paper, frowning down at it. She looked up to House hopefully. "Maybe you could give Myron a prescription? Something weaker than what he's got now? Tell him it's better for his heart—he'd buy that."

"You can't tell him the truth, so you want me to lie to him?" House asked incredulously.

Ramona didn't seem to hear his disbelief. "Would you?"

"Close your legs," House sighed, his faith in human nature slipping down another notch.

OoO

Two o'clock found House back in the conference room, a sandwich from the cafeteria in hand. This, he'd quickly found, was another disadvantage to Wilson's absence—having to buy his own lunch. He'd have to give Wilson the bill when he got back.

"So the EMG was clean?" Cameron was asking, having temporarily deserted her position at the computer.

House glanced down to the history that Foreman had gotten. "Well, based on this history, it's either toxic herbs from the homeopath, spinal damage from the chiropractor, infection from the needle that the acupuncturist accidentally let sit in eye of newt, or the shen balancer. What the hell is a _shen_, and how come it's lopsided?"

"The only abnormal test result we found was on the echo report," Foreman said. "Mitral valve prolapsed."

House was still stuck on the history. "Hang up a shingle and condemn the narrowness and greed of Western medicine, and you'd make a damn fine living."

Foreman, in true Foreman style, plunged onward with no regard towards his boss's rant. "Clot's formed on a faulty valve, gets sent to the brain—voila! Stroke."

"Of course, no harm no foul," House said, persistently carrying on. "It's just taking a few bucks from superstitious idiots, right?"

"Could also be an aneurysm due to trauma," Chase said.

"Trauma?" Foreman snorted. "What, trauma from the chiropractic treatments? It's bacterial endocarditis, an infected valve. We should do blood cultures."

"Except the six months he spent with these charlatans might have been spent going to someone who looks at things that exist in the real world," House went on, now very nearly talking to himself, as no one else was listening. "But that's just me being narrow again."

"I heard a small bruit when I listened to Harvey's left chest carotid," Chase said, putting a little more weight behind his voice.

"Aneurysm would have shown up on the angiogram," Cameron said.

"No, not necessarily," Chase said, shaking his head.

"Quite a dilemma," House said, taking interest in the conversation for the first time. He reached over and seized his magic 8-ball. "Oh, great pool hall oracle, grant me guidance." He shook the ball vigorously. "Do we go with Foreman's theory, which is at least marginally supported by medical test results, or Chase's theory, which is completely unsupported by medical evidence? Oh, what to do..."

"The guy obviously broke his jaw somehow," Chase protested, already knowing what House was going to say. "Who knows what other trauma he's suffered? We should do the angiogram again."

"And all signs point to..." House glanced at the eight-balls' clear plastic screen, not bothering to read what it actually said. "Sorry, Chase. The gods have spoken. Start Harvey on blood thinners and antibiotics."

Cameron rose to follow Chase and Foreman but House stuck out his cane and effectively cut off her path.

"I'm not working for Vogler," Cameron told him, her face jaw set and her arms folded across her chest.

"What letter are you up to?" House asked.

Cameron glared. "C," she said, turning around and stalking back to the computer.

House tossed the remains of his sandwich in the garbage can, beginning to limp towards his office as he pulled out his pager. It only took one person to set up an IV line.

OoO

Chase left the exam room, leaving House still inside half-naked, and he took deep breaths. He glanced over to a pair of nurses who had watched him exit and wondered what they were thinking. Did they know? They couldn't know. How could they know? Did he have I Just Got Screwed By My Boss tattooed on his forehead, as a result of some outlandish prank by House?

He shook his head, and it shook the thoughts from his mind as well. His mind was strangely empty as he walked down the hallways of the hospital, feeling like he was stepping on tiles he'd never stepped on before, seeing walls that hadn't been there before. There were so many things to think about that he wasn't even sure where to begin. Predominantly, Cameron. House was torturing an innocent woman, driven by his own assumed convictions, and Chase hated sitting around and watching it. What was worse was that he couldn't say anything without betraying himself. He was powerless to help Cameron.

But House wouldn't keep this up, would he? _Could_ he? There had to be a breaking point, where Cameron went and complained to Cuddy. He had to know that if this ever got into the hospital grapevine, Cuddy would put an end to it as quickly as she could snuff out a candle. House wasn't stupid. He would probably just keep up with Cameron's punishment for this patient, and then he would consider Cameron atoned for her sins and he would lay off.

It made Chase a little sick to think that while he got to have sex with House, Cameron was being punished for something that she didn't do.

And it made him a little more sick to realize that he'd just said _got_ _to_.


	9. The Show That Never Ends

**Untouchable  
Chapter 9  
**_(The Show That Never Ends)_

"The patient asked you to strangle him?"

House couldn't help but reflect that the lawyer was using the same tone that he usually reserved for the worst of his clinic patients.

"Harvey is an asphyxiaphyliac," Annette explained. "He likes to be strangled or smothered."

"That's just sick," the lawyer muttered.

"Well that's an intriguing legal opinion," House said, rolling his eyes at the lawyer. Cuddy gave him a look that clearly read 'You Aren't Helping The Situation', but he barely acknowledged it. "Geeze, what kind of lawyer is he?"

The lawyer turned to him with a glare. "You want a legal opinion? Call the cops."

Annette, who had been sitting on the couch up until that point, suddenly seemed to feel that she needed to stand up to assert herself. "I was careful," she said. "I watched the monitors, made sure his O2 stats were over ninety. I would never hurt him."

"So what was the point?" House asked.

"Harvey was upset," Annette said patiently. "He needed to calm down. To feel in control by being controlled."

Cuddy looked faintly disgusted from behind her desk, but House watched her take in a breath. "Eh... And he pays you for this?" Obviously, she was trying to reign in the conversation to a more conventional, less blush-inducing area.

Annette nodded with a smile. "In return, he does my taxes and cleans my house."

Rapidly losing interest in the conversation, House turned around and began to walk out of Cuddy's office. He had to get back to his conference room and figure out what was going on with the patient, and whether the fact that his patient liked to be strangled had anything to do with his current state. Had Chase known that—

"We're not done here—we have to talk!" Cuddy called after him.

House paused, about to push the door open. "Call the cops, bar her from the hospital, force her to pierce your nipples... They're not really medical decisions."

Cuddy gave him an impossible look, which House took as his go-ahead.

Fucking Chase. He'd suggested redoing the angiogram, kept insisting that they didn't know what trauma the patient had gone through. He must have known. He _had_ to have known that Harvey liked to be strangled, that he hired Annette to dominate him. And not only did that throw a curveball into the diagnosis, it meant that Chase had actually _known_ Annette—or at least what she did. House hoped that he really hadn't been having sex with a masochist for the last three days. Or worse, a sadist.

Somehow, the image of Chase cracking a whip with a baleful look on his face came to his mind, and House found it so ridiculous that he couldn't even visualize it for more than a second. Chase just wasn't forceful enough, not confident enough to be a dominatrix. On the other hand, he was almost a perfect candidate for being on the other end of that whip.

"Chase," he barked as he pushed open the door to the conference room.

All three members of his team looked up, Chase looking particularly fearful.

"Did you know about this woman? What she does?" House demanded, limping over to the whiteboard to add it to the symptoms.

"I met her at some parties, yeah," Chase said.

House gestured towards Chase. "See that, Cameron? Chase is probably jealous that you're the one being tortured. He likes that." And then he frowned at Cameron, who stared up to him defiantly. "And why are you eating?"

"I'm eating my lunch," Cameron said. "I do still get a lunch break, don't I?"

"You can research with one hand," House said, jerking his thumb backwards, towards the computer.

Cameron's mouth fell open in outrage. "You're required by the hospital to give me a break!"

"You can go complain to Vogler," House said, "when your shift's over. But for now, you've still got to cover H through Z."

After a few beats of stunned silence, he watched her pick up her lunch, quiet and dignified, and walk over to the computer chair. He knew he was being ruthless, that this was a little extreme when he was just going to use her for a differential in two minutes anyways, but Cameron had betrayed him. She had chosen to run to Vogler for protection, and disloyalty wasn't something that he was going to tolerate. And when he turned back to face Chase, who was staring at Cameron with a closed expression, and Foreman, who was shaking his head in disbelief, House merely glared at them and started up the diagnosing session.

"So, Chase, here's a phrase for you to remember: Hey, this guy might have been pounded on the head one too many times!" House said.

Chase looked vaguely startled that House had spoken, but he quickly caught up and adopted an indignant expression. "I _said_ that I thought it was a trauma induced aneurysm. House—"

"Yeah," House interrupted, "Would have carried a tad more weight if you'd mentioned the 'liking pain' thing. You're on my naughty list. Sorry, Chase, no leather stethoscope this Christmas."

"I'm not into—"

"I assume that you never started him on antibiotics or blood thinners before Mistress Ilsa's rude interruption," House said, cutting Chase off for the second time in a row.

Chase opened his mouth, ready to defend himself again, but then Foreman reached over and flicked him on the shoulder. Getting the hint to stop kicking the dead horse, he shrugged with one shoulder and exhaled. "It was probably a good thing."

"Start him on antibiotics and blood thinners," House said.

"You still think Chase is wrong?" Cameron asked cautiously, from behind him.

"No, he's probably right," House said, and before he could finish, Chase immediately jumped in.

"Then we should schedule him for vascular surgery," Chase said, looking frustrated with him. "Go into the carotids, find the aneurysm, repair it."

House heard Cameron turn in her chair. "If we put him on blood thinners, he might bleed out."

"But if Foreman's right about it being bacterial endocarditis," House said impatiently, "and we—"

Foreman raised his hand. "I think Chase is right."

"Okay, if Foreman _used_ to be right about it being blood clots," House said, correcting himself with the roll of his eyes, "and we take the surgery route, then we'll probably kill the guy. So start him on blood thinners, and if he has another stroke, then we'll schedule the surgery."

"I'll go do it," Foreman muttered, standing up. His eyes lingered on Cameron, long enough for House to notice but too quickly for him to let out some crass remark, and then he left.

Chase, predictably, followed House into his office.

"You know," House said as he heard the door shut behind him, "for someone who's paranoid about people suspecting that we're gettin' it on, you're well on your way to becoming my second shadow." Instead of heading for his desk, he went for his armchair.

Chase snorted. "I'm not Cameron, you know."

"Well, obviously," House said as he practically fell back into the chair, closing his eyes as he tipped his head back. "You're not the one with loyalty issues."

"Ye-ah," Chase agreed in a strange voice.

Curious, House opened his eyes to look at Chase's face, but it was impassive. Disappointed, he studied Chase critically. "What, are you sleeping with her, too? First with the dominatrix, now you're trying to orchestrate a threesome. Makes me wonder what—"

"I'm not into S&M," Chase said, cutting him off with a level tone. "And I told you that I wasn't going to play this game."

"And he doesn't deny sleeping with Cameron," House said wonderingly. "Huh. How odd."

Chase looked mildly revolted for a minute. "I would never sleep with Cameron," he said. "She's—I work with her, and—"

"You're sleeping with me," House said pointedly.

"You're different," Chase said firmly, but his face belied this. He looked frustrated for a minute, and then he walked over to House's desk. He picked up one of his own, cherry red pieces and idly toyed with it for a minute or two.

House watched quietly, waiting for Chase to say something more.

Finally, Chase put the piece back down on the chessboard—but not from where he'd picked it up from. "Knight to D4," he said.

When he said nothing more than that, House sighed. "What is this, a guessing game? Charades?"

Chase was silent for a long time.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I don't know."

House made a face. "Well then take it back. You can't just make a move and not do anything."

"What move can I make?" Chase asked, shaking his head. He sat down in House's chair and stared at the board with a bewildered expression. "All we're going to do is have sex."

"So? What did you want, long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners?"

Chase closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with his hand. "No," he said. "I'm supposed to say yes, aren't I? I don't know. What do you care?"

"You're interesting," House said, watching Chase keenly. This certainly was different. If it had been Wilson, he would have immediately said that Wilson was deliberately manipulating him, trying to make him feel guilty about something. But, as it was, House knew that Chase wasn't able to manipulate his way out of a wet paper bag. And he certainly wasn't feeling guilty. Just annoyed that Chase was in his chair, and that he thought House cared enough about him to let him have his little mental breakdown in it.

"I'm going to get drunk tonight," Chase finally said, sounding more resigned than happy about this.

House's eyebrows raised. "Well, I guess with your family history, that might—"

"Oh, shut up," Chase snapped, sounding more like Cuddy than House had ever heard him. "I'm getting so sloshed I won't be able to see straight, and you're welcome to come along if you can keep your comments about my mother to yourself."

House's first instinct was to make a comment about Chase's usage of the word "slosh", but he thought better of it. "What's in it for me?"

"I'll pay," Chase offered.

"Drinks _and_ the cab?" House asked.

Chase rolled his eyes. "Sure. Right after work—Risco's is close."

"What is that, one of your hinky gay bars?" House asked. "I've never even _heard _of that. We're going to Four Leaf."

"Fine," Chase said, shrugging off the jab about his choice of bar. "They'd better have foreign beer."

House wrinkled his nose. "Gross."

Chase gave him a deliberate stare, and then opened the drawer to House's desk without looking down. Carefully, without taking his eyes off of House, he reached down and withdrew a red lollipop. A faint smile appeared on his face as he peeled off the wrapper, and then he stuck it in his mouth.

"That's mine," House said.

Chase smirked, pulling it out of his mouth slowly. "So come and get it."

"What, with Cameron four feet away?" House snorted. "Moron."

Taking a lick of the lollipop, Chase stood and shut the drawer. "I'm going to go see how Harvey's doing," he said.

"And I'll sit here and do nothing," House replied cheerily, putting his legs up on the footrest and leaning back into the chair. "Let's hear it for yin and yang!"

OoO

"Brenda!" House shouted over the hubbub and din of the clinic. "I have a present for you!"

Brenda, who was standing at the nurse's station and sorting through charts, glanced up and made a beckoning motion with her hand.

"I got it," House said proudly, displaying his parking pass for Brenda, and whoever else was watching their exchange, to see.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Brenda held out a hand.

House jerked it back. "Not so fast!" he said. "First, I want to ensure that everything you hear will be sent to me via email, at least once a day."

"Done," Brenda said, her hand darting out and grabbing the pass before House could hold it out of her reach.

House scowled at her and was about to add something to the deal, when his pager went off. He pulled it out of his pocket, reading the screen.

"Gotta go," he said brightly. "Patient dying."

OoO

Well, it wasn't a 911 page, so his patient wasn't technically dying, but it turned out that Foreman had been wrong about the guy having bacterial endocarditis ("I _said_ Chase was probably right!"—"Yeah, yeah, we've all got perfect 20/20 hindsight"). The blood thinners resulted in a series of mini-strokes, and House had no sooner had his team scampering off to schedule a vascular surgery than they came back with the news that Harvey—Harold?—was refusing the surgery. And even after Chase called a friend of a friend and got a hold of Annette, snuck her into the hospital against her court order, and had Annette try to work her magic, they had no success.

To make things worse, Harvey-Harold had had another stroke, resulting in the second lawyer meeting in a day.

Thankfully, it was quick and dry, and he got off with a slap on the wrist and instructions that if he wanted to do the vascular surgery while Harvey-Harold was in a coma, he was going to have to find his next-of-kin.

"Harvey," Foreman repeated. "H-a-r-v-e-y."

From the other end of conference room table, Chase looked as frustrated as Foreman sounded. "I'm sorry to have bothered you—thank you. Okay."

House watched them work from the bookshelf, and he cast a glance over to Cameron. "What letter you on?"

A glare. "M," she said.

From where he was standing, House could see the Wikipedia logo. "How many are from there?" he asked.

"I don't know," Cameron said. "Do you want me to start citing my references?"

"Is that..." House cupped a hand behind his ear, leaning towards Cameron. "Resentment? That I hear?"

Cameron tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and stared up to House, expression steady. "House, I'm not working with Vogler."

"Yes, Harvey Park," Chase suddenly said, his volume escalating slightly in excitement. "Great! We've been looking for you! I'm calling from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Harvey's here, and it's rather—" He stopped, frowning and taking the receiver away from his face. Chase looked at House, who had deserted his conversation with Cameron, and then he shrugged and put the phone back on its cradle. "He hung up."

"You tell him why you were calling?" Foreman asked, hanging up his own phone in defeat.

Chase shook his head. "I didn't get a chance."

"Call back," Foreman suggested.

House reached over and knocked Chase's hand out of the way, picking up the phone. "I'll do it. Let the master show you how it's done."

Chase snorted and pulled out a box of Tic-Tacs, popping a few into his mouth.

"Mr. Park? This is Dr. House calling from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. Your son Harvey is dead—we need you to identify the body." Across the room, Cameron's mouth fell open. Chase rolled his eyes and Foreman smirked. "Yes, I'm sorry, it's the law."

House hung up, and grabbed the box of Tic-Tacs off the table, ignoring Chase's protest.

"They're gonna show up at the morgue," Cameron commented.

"What was that?" House asked, tilting his head. "I thought I heard someone speaking."

"I _said_, they're going to show up at the morgue," Cameron repeated, increasing her volume.

"Do you hear that?" House asked Foreman.

Chase glared. "House, stop it. She said that his parents are going to show up at the morgue."

"Good point, Chase," House said with an affirmative nod. "Be sure to let me know when Cuddy starts screaming."

OoO

Harvey's parents were rather pissed upon discovering that their son was not really dead. This resulted in the _third_ meeting with the lawyer in Cuddy's office, in which the lawyer tried to haggle his way out of a lawsuit, Cuddy attempted to call upon Mrs. Park's maternal instincts, and House finally threatened to start spreading rumors about their relationship with their son. The latter did the trick. Mrs. Park signed, and he left the lawyer to wheedle a compensatory amount for the couple's trouble.

He sent Foreman to go and set up the surgery, and then informed Cameron that he wanted the list, typed, alphabetized and paper-clipped, on his desk when he came in tomorrow morning. Cameron left rather huffily, obviously planning on going home and finishing it on her own computer. And then House sought out Chase.

He found him collapsed in the break room, staring at the dark television screen on the wall with his eyes half-open.

"Are you trying to will the TV to turn on?" House asked by way of greeting. "Or do you find it more entertaining to stare at black boxes than moving pictures?"

Chase tipped his head back, groaning slightly as he rubbed his eyes. "I _so_ need to get drunk," he muttered.

"Sounds like the plan," House said, his patience already beginning to wear. "Let's go!"

"All right, all right." Chase got to his feet and gave House a slight smile as he reached for his coat. "We should probably take my car—no one's going to want to steal it."

House was momentarily caught between making a jab about the quality of Chase's car and running with the compliment his own had just received. In the end, he settled on, "I don't care what we take, as long as it's parked close to the hospital. Don't want me slip-sliding on ice, do we?"

Chase offered a half-hearted snort in reply. He shrugged on his coat, slung his bag over his shoulder, and looked over to House expectantly.

"C'mon, c'mon, wasting time," House said impatiently, circling his hand repeated to emphasize his point. When he saw Chase beginning to walk towards the door, he turned around and pulled the door open. Walking out, he waited for Chase follow.

"So you'll have to direct me to—what was it? The Clover?" Chase asked as he shut the door behind him carefully, as if there were someone inside, sleeping.

"Four Leaf," House corrected, not bothering to roll his eyes. "You obviously don't go drinking much—why all of a sudden?"

"What does it matter?" Chase asked. "You're getting free drinks out of it."

"Because I need to know. Pawn to A6—why did you spontaneously decide that your liver needed a beating?" House said, looking particularly smug as he pushed the down button for the elevator. He liked this game.

Chase cast him a sidelong, unimpressed look. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

"But it's so much easier for you to tell me," House pointed out. "And I asked—unless you're refusing my move?"

"My father is dying," Chase said candidly. "It pisses me off. And so do you, for that matter."

"You're mad at your father because he's dying?" House said, stepping back to allow the stream of nurses and patients to exit the elevator. "And here, I thought you didn't care about him."

Chase stepped into the elevator and punched the L button, leaning against the back wall as House joined him. No one else got on, and the doors closed with only the two of them inside. "I don't care about him," he said. "It pisses me off that he came here to see me, and wasted the whole trip. I would have rather had him stay back in Australia and never known that he was dying."

"And you're mad at me for telling you," House surmised, leaning against the back wall next to Chase. "Well, gee, that almost sounds like you're mad at me for making it harder not to care."

Chase crossed his arms over his chest, not looking at House. "I answered your question—stop interrogating me."

The elevator doors opened before them, and Chase stepped off first. House followed, curiosity piqued.

OoO

Getting drunk with House was one of the worst ideas he'd ever had. The suggestion had just sort of spilled out of his mouth earlier. He hadn't been thinking about anything other than the fact that he had to make a move, and that it had to be a damn good one, otherwise House would start to lose interest in him, and then this whole thing might be screwed. Keeping House interested was a Herculean task, and getting drunk was the first out that he'd seen.

Driving to the bar, following House's instructions, Chase's mind was racing almost too fast to keep up with the conversation. What if he messed up and said something that he shouldn't? What if House _remembered_ that he'd slipped up? What if he got so drunk, he ended up at House's place? He couldn't wake up in House's bed. He couldn't. No, absolutely not. That would probably rate as The Worst Idea Ever. Even worse of an idea than throwing his dice in with Vogler had been.

He was, however, somewhat pleased with himself at how easy it was becoming to hold a conversation with House. It was a bit like running a marathon.

"Left up here," House directed, referring to the traffic light that was approximately fifty feet away.

Chase slowed down, and then came to a stop as the light turned red. Impatient already for it to turn green, he leaned back in his seat and exhaled.

"Just so you know, they don't serve that catpiss you call beer at Four Leaf," House said with a smirk that Chase didn't even have to look over to see. It was evident enough in his voice.

"I can deal," Chase said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Everything tastes the same after the third round anyways."

"Not if it's only beer," House said. "That'll be another seven rounds—be adventurous. There's more exciting stuff out there than beer. Beer is for rednecks."

"Rednecks," Chase muttered, rolling his eyes at American slang.

"Rednecks," House repeated, apparently thinking that Chase had no idea what rednecks were. "Hicks. Hillbillies. What the hell do you call them?"

Chase stared at the car coming up behind them in his rearview mirror, his eyes flicking to the light again, and then returning to watch the car. It was also making a left, but it didn't seem to be slowing down. "Bogans," he said. "House—"

The name had no sooner left his mouth than there was the sound of brakes screeching, and then the deafening sound of metal slamming into metal.


	10. Fast Car

**Untouchable  
Chapter 10  
**_(Fast Car)_

His name had scarcely left Chase's lips when House felt his body being slammed forward, heard something awful and terrifyingly loud, and he saw sheer white. He was reeling forward, something was screaming—or was it someone—and lights were flashing and buildings were careening around him, like he was on a rollercoaster. Things were spinning, he heard something snap, sparks were flying before his eyes...

And then it was over.

His face was pressed against something white and rubbery. Blindly, he pushed against it—miraculously, it went away. The first thing House saw was a blinding light. He shut his eyes and looked away, and he opened them to a spiderweb of glass. The windshield was cracked through, sections fallen through, and past it, House could see stopped cars and streetlight-lit roads. The car was in the side of the intersection, rammed against a pole. Car horns blared. He could smell burnt rubber.

He looked up to glance at the rearview mirror, but the glass was too splintered to see anything.

Next to him, he heard someone groan, and House abruptly remembered that he was driving with Chase.

They'd rammed into a pole, and not in dead center—it was off to the driver's side, which meant that Chase had probably received the worst of the blow. The deflated air bag was flopped out of the steering wheel, and judging by the red marks on Chase's face, his face had slammed into it. Shards of glass had rained down on both of them, and Chase's hair glittered with broken glass. As he stirred, pieces fell out.

"Don't move," House said as Chase began to wake up. "You've got glass around you—you're going to get one through your jugular."

"Huh?" Chase mumbled, lifting his head slightly.

"Stop moving!" House snapped, not daring to put his hand on Chase's head to emphasize the point. "You're going to kill yourself."

Chase stopped moving his head, and House could tell from some light that was flooding the car that Chase had his eyes open, and was blinking them heavily. "House?"

"Oh Exalted One will suffice," House told him, but the endorphins were beginning to wear off. The shock that he had been in a car accident was disappearing, and a wave of dizzied pain began to creep up on him.

"Mm... kay," Chase said, and House noticed that his voice was slightly slurred. "What—what's going on?"

"Car wreck," House said. "Some idiot rear-ended us, we launched through the intersection and into this here pole. Hope you've got insurance."

"Uh-huh..." Chase frowned, and he seemed to suddenly become more aware of his surroundings. "House!" he said, his head snapping up and turning to stare. Then he winced.

"I told you not to move," House said, his tone glib only after no spurts of blood came erupting out of Chase's neck. He swallowed a wave of nausea.

Chase's eyes were wide. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," House said, lying through his teeth. He could feel at least a sprained wrist and his leg was beginning to cramp up—he was going to get out of here soon. Only Wilson and Stacy had seen him riding out the agony of his leg cramping, and he planned on keeping it that way. "I'm not the one with the concussion."

"You're bleeding," Chase said, sounding amazed by this fact. "You—you're bleeding. Your head."

House reached up to touch his temple, reflexively, but he stopped and stared at his fingers, which were bloody and looked burnt. He bit his tongue as the sight of it suddenly brought searing, throbbing pain to his hand. He felt dizzy.

"House?" Chase said cautiously.

"Can you tell if it's superficial?" House asked, finally lowering his hand and making an effort to shove the image out of his mind.

Chase squinted. "Uh..."

"Where's it at?" House prompted, impatient to know where else he was injured.

"Um, lower zygomatic bone, left side, more medial," Chase said. "It's long. And it's bleeding."

"Of course it's bleeding," House said. "Do you feel dizzy?"

Chase raised his head, like he was going to nod, but he stopped and swallowed. "Yeah. Lightheaded, my vision's a little blurry, and I..." Chase grimaced. "Can you tell if it's bad, down below?"

"You can't feel your body?" House asked, his heart skipping a beat the possibility despite himself.

Chase drew in a shaky breath. "I don't know. It's probably just adrenaline, but it doesn't feel like there's anything there. I can sort of feel... my fingers. They feel really cold."

House went to lean over to look, but the sound of sirens piercing the air made him stop. The feeling of relief temporarily swamped him, overriding his pain and nausea. He opened his eyes (although he wasn't sure when he'd shut them in the first place), and looked at Chase, who was staring at him with terrified eyes.

"I guess this means no sex for a few days," House offered weakly.

Chase laughed.

Flashing red lights ran through the car, and House realized that there was practically half the Princeton fire department there. He counted four ambulances, three fire trucks and six police cars. "Hey, if the other guy dies, we could make tomorrow's headlines."

That sobered Chase up. "You think he's dead? Oh, god. Oh god, oh god..."

"Relax. You're going to give yourself an aneurysm, and how's that going to look after you just survived a car accident?" House heard voices, radioed calls for backup, and people talking. Footsteps, maybe.

"Shut up," Chase said, taking another tremulous breath.

"Sir?"

House's head whirled around, which turned out to be a mistake. He shut his eyes and clutched something hard in the palm of his hand, waiting for the waves of vertigo to stop spinning him round and round.

"My name is Lawrence; I'm a police officer for the city of Princeton. You were just part of an accident—our firefighters and paramedics are going to do their best to get you out of this car and to a hospital. Is there anything immediate that I should know?" Lawrence asked, finishing just as House finally opened his eyes.

The bright lights around him swam for a moment. "We work at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," House said. He wondered if his voice actually sounded strange, or if it was just his ears. "Doctors."

"Do you want to be transported there?" Lawrence asked. "Princeton General is closer."

"Princeton-Plainsboro," House said.

"Can you tell if either of you is seriously injured?" Lawrence asked, using a flashlight to peer inside the wrecked car.

"I hit my head—probably grade two concussion," Chase said.

Lawrence looked to House, who stared back. "I'm good," he said with false jubilance. "Never better!"

"Is there anything else?" Lawrence asked, unfazed by House's antics.

House was silent.

"He's got a bad leg," Chase said, sounding exasperated. "Going to need a cane or something. Honestly, House..."

OoO

In the end, they were both lucky that things hadn't been worse. House got put on morphine. Chase got put on a twelve-hour bed rest. Cuddy came up and visited them, not questioning why they'd been in the same car, but only when they were going to be up to working again, and if there was anything she could do. House, who hadn't had injuries worthy of a bed and was therefore annoying Chase from a chair, suggested that he might need further injections of morphine, or perhaps a blowjob to tide him over. Cuddy was not amused.

"You," she said sternly, "are not to have any form of sexual activity for the next week. None."

"None?" House repeated.

"None. Die Fuhrerin has spoken," Cuddy said, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked over to Chase. "Same for you, Dr. Chase. No sex."

"Uh-huh," Chase mumbled from his bed, looking mortified.

Cuddy looked over to House. "I just got a phone call from Princeton General—the girl who hit you is pretty banged up. She's going to—"

"Don't care," House cut her off.

"_House_," Cuddy admonished with a frown. "She—"

"Is alive, and therefore, Chase can sue her ass. All that matters," House said, speaking up before Chase could get a word in. "Anything else?"

Cuddy stared at him, looking unsure of whether to persist in her report or to just give up. "Fine," she said, throwing up her hands. "I'm going home—you go to sleep."

House watched her leave silently, aware that Chase was sitting two feet away from him, stewing and glaring at him. He really wasn't in the mood to have an argument right now—what he was in the mood for was _sleep_—but he couldn't seem to get out of his chair to walk up to his office. It was ridiculously comfy. He promptly decided that he must have be pretty high on morphine to think that these hospital chairs were not comparable to sitting in a urinal.

"I wanted to know how she was doing!" Chase protested.

House shrugged. "It doesn't matter. She's alive, and you can find out later when you call up her lawyer."

Chase sighed and pushed his head back into the pillow.

"I'm going to sleep," House said suddenly, standing up. The world rocked, but he leaned on the (hospital-issued) cane he was holding, and things went right again after a minute. He blinked twice, and then glanced to Chase.

"I need..." Chase trailed off, and then shook his head. "Never mind. Thanks for staying with me for a while."

House was curious, but not curious enough to ask Chase what it was that he needed. Obviously, he either didn't need it or could get someone else to do it, or else he would have said something. So he nodded in response, turned around and shut off the lights on the way out.

He hadn't even realized that he'd done it until after he'd left the room. House had half a mind to go back in there and turn them back on, leaving Chase to wait until a nurse came by to ask for the lights to be turned off or try to sleep through the night with the lights on. But by the time he'd weighed his options and decided that flicking the lights back on would be far more fun than leaving them off, he was already in front of the elevators. And his leg was blissfully pain free, and he wanted to fall asleep before that went away.

The elevator doors opened and no one stepped off. He limped in and punched the 4, hoping that he had something resembling a blanket in his office. He was still clad in only the hospital gown he'd been issued, and as his clothes were probably somewhere in the ER, he was going to have to find something to wrap himself up in. The hospital was cold.

He wished that he had his bottle of Vicodin. He didn't need any at the moment, but he still wanted it. Waking up was going to be another level of hell in itself. House had been in car accidents before—though this had probably been the worst one to date—and he knew that the mornings afterwards were horrible.

He got off the elevator, a lone nurse in blue scrubs brushing past him as she walked on. House could see his office from here, and he stared at the door gratefully. Sleep was only a few minutes away. And he really wanted to sleep.

His tired brain suggested that perhaps he wanted to sleep, not to ride out the morphine high and not have toss and turn for a night, but to allow himself to escape the thoughts of what had happened only a few hours ago. The fact that he could have died. The fact that _Chase_ could have died. The fact that the thought of Chase dying conjured an image of him unconscious and slumped in his seat, his head lolling forward uselessly, only his seatbelt keeping him upright. The glass in his hair. The airbag deflated before him.

House almost shook his head to clear his mind of that image, but then he remembered that it would probably result in another vertigo episode. So instead, he just exhaled and told himself that he was tired. And that everyone thought of strange things at one o'clock in the morning after surviving a harrowing car wreck. He'd just been closer to Chase in the past six days than he'd ever been in the year that Chase had been working for him—having sex with people was bound to make you think about them more.

And damn, no sex for a week.

Like he was going to listen to _that_.

House pushed open the door to his office and made his way inside. The chessboard was still sitting on his desk, the pieces scattered about the board, and House glanced at it before heading into the conference room. There had to be something—something somewhere—that would serve as a blanket.

He was going to go home tomorrow and sleep all day long. Actually, he was going to bitch one of his ducklings into writing him a prescription for a new bottle of Vicodin, and then he was going to go home and sleep. Maybe he could call up Wilson and regale him with a blow-by-blow account of the car wreck that would have Wilson on the next flight to Princeton, homemade chicken noodle soup and sympathy ready. That wouldn't be so bad. At least, the chicken noodle soup part of it; House wasn't too keen on Wilson fawning over him.

He dug into the change of clothes that kept near his desk for vomiting patients, but only found a t-shirt, jeans and socks. He was about to shut the drawer and head into Wilson's office for the night when he caught sight of an old coat sitting at the bottom of the drawer. It was old and flimsy, but it would do. So with that settled, he flopped down on his armchair with the jacket over him and promptly fell asleep.

OoO

House felt someone poke him.

Pain shot through his body at the touch, and he stifled a groan. His body was positively _throbbing_. His leg was in agony, his head was pounding, his fingers felt like if he moved them, they would snap off at the joints, and his wrist had a stake being driven through it. God, why was he awake? He just wanted to go back to sleep, to wait until the pain was gone.

"House?"

It was a distinctly Cameron-like voice.

"G'way," he muttered, but speaking abruptly brought a rise of bile to the back of his throat. Every cell in his was turning inside out, dying with painful little explosions. The thought of moving was unimaginable. And out of the question.

"House, we need you for a differential," the Cameron-like voice said again.

"Bucket," House croaked, his stomach flipping and squeezing unpleasantly. He was going to vomit, and probably a lot.

"Bucket?" the voice asked. "You want a bucket?"

House forced himself to open his eyes, the light stabbing his eyes the moment his lids cracked open. "Gonna puke," he said, his eyes watering in the blinding light. He shut them.

"Oh—oh, right. Bucket. Foreman, can you hand me that?" There was shuffling.

Gritting his teeth, House reached out with his hand—the one not sprained—and he felt something cool and plastic being held out to him. Opening his eyes a little, he found that it was his garbage can, and before the fact could register he was leaning over and puking up his guts.

He remembered the wreck last night, remembered flashing lights and broken glass and the sight of his bloody hand. Chase, knocked unconscious from the blow, the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline, the sirens blaring, cars honking...

It seemed like ages before he finally finished.

"Are you all right?"

House shoved the garbage can at Cameron, not feeling that the question deserved an answer. "Where's Chase?"

"He's not coming in this morning," Cameron said, taking the can and quickly handing it off to Foreman. "ER discharged him early this morning and I gave him a ride home."

"I'm going home," House informed them, sitting back into the armchair and closing his eyes. "So one of you had better get down to the pharmacy and get me a new bottle of Vicodin."

"House, we were wrong," Foreman said. "They couldn't find the aneurysm in surgery, and Harvey's had two more strokes post-op."

House cracked open his eyes. "Did I stutter?"

"We were thinking that we should go back to blood thinners, and up the dosage," Cameron said. "Do you need a ride home?"

"That's not the only ride you'd like to give me," House muttered, swallowing another swell of nausea. He wondered whether Chase had any good drugs from the ER. "Get another angiogram and another echo. And a full-body scan. And a bottle of Vicodin."

Cameron and Foreman exchanged a glance. "House, you just got a refill two days ago."

"And the ER kindly disposed of it for me," House said, with more sarcasm than he really felt. "I need Vicodin. Now."

OoO

Two hours later, he was back in his apartment with a new bottle of Vicodin. House hadn't managed to get as far as the bed—just walking from Cameron's car to his couch had nearly made him get down his stash of morphine from his bookcase. But there was no way he had enough stamina to climb up there. So he was laying on the couch, television on but silent, and half-dozing. He drifted in and out of sleep, car alarms and yowling cats waking him up for seconds at a time before his eyelids drooped downward, and he was back to sleeping. The pain was muted, both by the Vicodin and sheer exhaustion, and he tried not to glance at the television screen because the bright lights and moving colors made him feel sick.

When the phone rang for the eighth time, House gave up trying to sleep through it. He flopped his hand around the coffee table for a minute, and then finally found it and flipped it open.

"What?" he asked, his voice coming garbled.

"Everything came back normal," Cameron said. "Harvey just had another stroke."

Despite himself, House felt the cogs and gears in his mind began to turn. "Okay," he said. "So it's not clotting. Let's go back to infections."

"We already ruled that out," Foreman said, sounding just as loud as Cameron. They must have put him on speakerphone. "Blood tests didn't show any elevated white count."

"Do 'em again," House said, leaning back into the couch as he continued to think it over. "Check out his jaw—metal plate would hide an infection."

"Okay," Cameron said. "We'll let you know how it goes."

House opened his mouth to say something to the effect of, "I'll be on the edge of my seat," but Cameron had hung up by the time the words were ready to leave his mouth. Slightly dejected, he ended the call and was about to shut the phone so that he could go back to sleep, when he considered calling Wilson. Just to annoy him during his conference. With any luck, he'd call right during the middle of Wilson's speech—and Wilson might have his phone on vibrate. That would be fun.

So he punched in Wilson's number and brought the phone up to his ear.

Unfortunately, Wilson had his phone off and House was transferred directly to his answering machine.

"Got into a car accident," House said flippantly. "Nothing real bad—minor concussion, sprained wrist, burned my fingers, got stitches... And morphine. Good times. Thought you might want to know."

He hung up and felt decidedly like he'd accomplished nothing. Leaving a message that was sure to freak out Wilson was all right, but he'd have to wait. And, he'd just realized, there was the added minus of not getting to see Wilson's face when he found out the mess House had gotten himself in now. He thought about calling Wilson again and again to leave fifty or so messages, but decided against it. It would be too time consuming.

The idea of calling Chase to inform him that, whatever Cuddy had said, they were most certainly _not_ going to wait a week to have sex, flickered in his mind. But he'd had enough of Chase for a while. He could have sworn that his dreams last night had included him—and, if he cared to admit it, they had been ranging more towards nightmares, not dreams.

But who cared? Dreams were dreams. A product of the human psyche interacting with neurological chemicals.

OoO

House could have died.

The horror of this had him sitting on the couch, staring at the blank wall before him for a long time. It hadn't been his fault, he knew that. It was that girl's fault for texting, it was her boyfriend's fault for replying, it was her parents' faults for not teaching her better, it was the car's fault for having slow brakes... Only God knew whose fault it was. But House could have died yesterday, could have snapped his neck or been crushed by the car parts that had crunched together at the pole, could have gotten a piece of glass through his neck, could have...

If House had been here right now, hearing Chase's inner monologue, he would have said that he was being stupid. That it didn't matter, because what had happened was done, and Chase should just be grateful for the fact that everyone had come out alive (and he knew it, he did, he just couldn't bring himself to get off that stupid couch).

Fate had played with House's life yesterday, almost snatched him away, and Chase hated the thought of it. He was playing with House's heart, and that meant House was his.

What right did anyone else have to him?


	11. A Few Small Bruises

**Untouchable  
Chapter 11  
**_(A Few Small Bruises)_

The next day, both House and Chase showed up for work. The rumor mill had ground up their car crash and pounded it into day-old powder by the time House strolled in—which was not to say that Cuddy didn't admonish him for coming in, and that Cameron and Foreman didn't make themselves scarce. He'd seen them grab coffee from the conference room around ten, and then they were out like a flash. He didn't know what they were doing, but it was keeping them out of his hair. He'd continue his punishment of Cameron tomorrow, maybe, when he actually had the self-will to assert himself.

Cameron's list had been sitting on his desk when he came in, typed, alphabetized and paper-clipped, and he picked it up and let it fall into the trash can. He hoped that Cameron caught sight of her work sitting in the garbage can.

The morning was quiet. Chase had come in later than usual, looking a bit worse for wear, and he'd sat down at the conference room table with a book of crossword puzzles and had been doing them for a while now. He was sitting rather stiffly—despite his insistence that he couldn't feel any pain, Chase had actually ended up with various minor injuries that had to be painful; cracked rib and a severely bruised sternum, as well as burns on his forearms from where the airbag had exploded out of the steering wheel.

But whatever. Chase was probably taking some sort of pain medication.

House turned on his computer, deciding to check his email. Brenda should have emailed him by now with reports about Vogler, and that would keep him entertained for a while. He would have had Chase move that box of medical journals into Wilson's office at long last, but he figured that he'd have to sacrifice one of his Vicodin in return—he knew for a fact that the ER practically had a vending machine of Tylenol No. 2. They'd even tried to give _him_ some when they discharged him.

Computer screen up, House logged on and opened up his inbox. His eyes skimmed over a department memo, three Get Well Soon e-cards, a couple of emails from Cuddy had headed "potential case??", an email from eBay informing him that he'd lost an auction and a newsletter from iTunes, and then he found an email from bprevin(a)ppth.nét . She'd entitled it "NAACP".

_Sunday_

—_Free clinic might be closing. Vogler wants to start charging people, final decision to be reached soon._

—_Major donor died, donated his remaining fortune to Princeton General_

—_Vogler talking to patient about the food quality_

—_Vogler talking to patient about staff, possibly efficiency/attitude, nurse was lip-reading_

—_Dr. Cameron not spotted visiting Pediatrics or Geriatrics (is usually seen talking to patients, but has missed days before)_

—_Vogler seen speaking to Dr. Cuddy_

That was it. House stared at the information for a few minutes, rereading and trying to apply it to what he already knew. Cameron hadn't been seen in Pediatrics or Geriatrics on Sunday because he'd been busy torturing her. It occurred to him that she was probably hiding out there right now. He'd have to ensure that she didn't get to spend any more time in there from now on. Come up with a list of busywork for her to do that would, overall, prevent her from leaving the conference room (ordering the books on the shelves by publication date was the first thing that came to mind).

He'd already known about the clinic. He was curious about the final decision, but he didn't need Brenda to keep him updated on the situation. Something that major would be over the hospital like wildfire—even the nightshift people would know it. Vogler talking to patients wasn't worrying. That was what he always did, and then he brought up any complaints he heard to the board meetings. What _was_ interesting were the two that remained: the death of the donor and Vogler conversing with Cuddy. The former wasn't necessarily going to be important now, but could be later (damn, Brenda was _good_), and the latter he could squeeze out of Cuddy.

You know, later. When he felt like standing up and walking all the way down to the first floor.

His phone rang.

"Yeah?" House greeted, relaxing back into his chair. He decided not to delete Brenda's email, and clicked on the one from eBay instead.

"Hi."

It was Wilson.

"Hello, bestest buddy," House said sweetly, deleting the email. "How's your conference?"

"It's fine," Wilson said. "I'm more worried about you. How are you feeling?"

House clicked on the iTunes newsletter and scanned it for free downloads. "Like I just got in a car crash—oh, wait! I did. How funny."

"What happened?" Wilson asked, sounding resigned. House was willing to bet that he was rubbing the back of his neck right now.

He briefly considered telling Wilson that he and Chase had been going to bar—but that would lead to an interrogation about why he'd been going to a bar with _Chase_, of all people. And that damned game meant that he couldn't tell Wilson anything. "On my way to the bar, stopped at a red light, some teenager wasn't looking and didn't stop in time."

"Jesus," Wilson said. He was almost certainly rubbing the back of his neck now. "How's your car?"

"Uh..." House said intelligently. He'd forgotten that minor detail. "Uh, it's—it's in the shop." Possibly the worst lie he'd ever told.

"Is the kid doing okay?" Wilson asked.

Holy shit. He couldn't believe Wilson had just bought that. "Don't know," he said quickly. "Don't care. She's alive."

Wilson sighed. "And you? Am I allowed to know how banged up you are?"

"I was in a car crash," House said, deleting the department memo after ascertaining that it didn't have anything to do with Vogler, the free clinic, the death of the major donor, or anything else concerning him. "I didn't get my legs chopped off in a sky diving accident."

"What grade concussion was it?" Wilson persisted, not put off by House's blasé tone.

"Grade one," House said. "See that? Not even bad."

"And your wrist?" Wilson continued, unabated.

House deleted the Get Well Soon messages without even opening them. "Probably grade one, too. There might a little tiny tear in there somewhere."

There was shouting in the background on the other end of the phone and then Wilson swore under his breath. "Okay. House, I'm sorry, I have to go—I'll call you later, all right?"

"I'll be waiting on the edge of my seat," House said dryly.

The line went dead after a moment, and he put the phone down. That hadn't been nearly as fun as he'd thought it was going to be.

His inbox cleared out, House closed out of his email and turned his attention to the chessboard before him. It always seemed to catch his eye—it was _ugly_. Maybe he could talk Chase into getting a new one. This one had _pink_ pieces, of all things. And a pink chess set on his desk was not exactly the thing that would project his manliness to people. He wondered what on earth had possessed Chase to use this set. Chess sets were all of five bucks at Wal-Mart.

His door swung open, and House's head shot up.

Chase was walking into his office, crossword puzzle book abandoned at the conference room table, and he walked over to the chess board. Or maybe he was walking towards House's desk. House couldn't tell. Whichever it was, Chase was walking very carefully.

"Tylenol 2?" House asked as Chase approached.

Chase nodded. "Yeah," he said, his head going down to the chess game. "It sucks."

"Don't get any ideas," House said, his hand instinctively going to his pocket. He quickly stopped himself from pulling out the bottle of Vicodin, and withdrew his hand. He'd just taken two three hours ago.

Chase gave a very short half-snort, and then he stopped, grimacing in pain. "I won't."

"Good," House said, nodding happily. "I'm getting us a new chessboard. This one's ugly. Where the hell did you find this thing?"

"Could you believe I stole it from Physio?" Chase asked with small, rather wry grin.

"No," House said instantly. And really, he couldn't.

"Okay," Chase said simply, not appearing bothered by House's response or ready to tell him whether that was an affirmation or a weary protest. Instead, he reached out and moved a piece. "Bishop to G2. My chest hurts like hell—no sex. I can't even lay down, unless I'm on my right side."

House's eyes lit up.

Chase scowled. "And we are absolutely _not_ doing it doggie style."

"Well, you're not any fun," House pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "What are we supposed to do then, talk? Go out for Sunday brunch?"

"I don't care," Chase said. "We could just put the game on hold."

House reached out and moved his castle. "Rook to A7. How did you get here this morning?"

"I took the bus," Chase said, not looking at all embarrassed to say so.

House barely heard him. He was intrigued. His last move had been an obvious, unspoken gesture. Chase had obviously just snatched up a huge piece of information, and yet he hadn't pursued it. Hadn't made a joke about it. He didn't even seem to acknowledge it. He just went on indifferently. If House had been Chase, he would have sunk his teeth into that and chewed on it until all the flavor had disappeared, and then some. Why wouldn't you?

"Will you _stop _that?" Chase said, breaking through House's thoughts.

"Stop what?" House asked.

Chase looked agitated. "Stop looking at me. Like that. I'm not waiting for you to offer me a ride or something."

"The thought didn't even cross my mind," House said, amused. "Does it bother you when I look at you?"

"No," Chase said. "It bothers me that I don't know what you're thinking when you stare at me. Pawn to H3."

For one rather frightening instant, House thought that Chase was going to make a move and _demand_ to know what House had just been thinking. Then he realized that if Chase were to ask him, he would have told him the truth without a second thought. Stupid game.

"I called my stepmother yesterday." Chase had his hands shoved in his pockets and he was staring down at the board determinedly. "Asked her about my dad. She said that he's got lung cancer—stage four. Radiation treatment stopped working two weeks ago."

House was momentarily silent. He decided that now would not be the best time to crack a joke. "Do they have an estimate? Wilson gave him three months..."

"Maybe a month, tops," Chase said, shaking his head and still not looking up to House.

"Why'd you call?" House asked.

Chase shrugged—and then he winced in pain. "Does it matter?"

House reached over and wordlessly moved his pawn forward a square. He stared up at Chase expectantly, daring him to refuse.

"I hate this game," Chase muttered.

Silently, House agreed.

Taking in a breath, Chase looked up from the board. "I wanted to find out what... plans. What plans he had for things after he died."

"His will?" House asked, his tone sharper than he'd meant it to be.

"Well, that," Chase said, nodding. "And his funeral. Where he's going to be buried."

"Why?" House asked, the question leaving his mouth before he remembered that he'd already had his question answered.

But Chase answered his question anyways. "I was... you know. Just—it was stupid. I don't know why. He hasn't..." Or at least, he tried to answer it.

"You aren't in the will?" House prodded, his mind already jumping from conclusion to conclusion like a frog hopping around on lily pads.

Chase shook his head. "I am—well, I was. It wasn't that. My mother... When they were still together, they bought, you know, a plot. In a graveyard. Had the stone made up and everything. And my mother's... She had the headstone with both of their names, with the date of his death blank—you know how people do that. So I was..."

"Of course he isn't going to be buried next to your mother," House said. "They were as divorced as it gets, short of the actual paperwork."

"I know that," Chase said, rubbing the side of his face tiredly. "I told you it was stupid. Anyways, I told her to make sure that I didn't get any cut of his will, and she said that she would."

House thought that over. "Why not?"

"I think you can figure that out," Chase said flatly, his hand falling to his side.

"Probably," House agreed. An idea struck him. "Hey, is Harold still here?"

Chase stared at him blankly. "Who?"

House waved an impatient hand. "Harold. Whatever. Kid who likes to be strangled, client of your friend Annette."

"She's not—"

"Yeah, we know," House interrupted. "You're really not into the BDSM scene. Got it. Is he still here?" He reached for his cane.

Slowly, Chase nodded, staring at House as if he were a few French fries short of a happy meal. "Yeah, he's recovering from surgery. Why?"

House didn't answer, but he stood up and limped away, leaving Chase alone in his office.

oOo

"Dr. Cuddy," Vogler said as he entered the office, sweeping in with the air of a man who knew that he'd just built a better mousetrap and would be making millions within days. "I wanted to stop by to give you these—my secretary didn't have them typed out in time for last night's meeting, but I made sure that he had them ready for you today. Do you remember Tom?"

Cuddy smiled. "Yes, I think I do. His wife recently had a baby, didn't she?"

Vogler set a manila envelope on Cuddy's desk, unopened. "Yes, he did. A little girl—named her Charity, I believe."

"Good for him." Cuddy took the envelope but didn't open it. She already knew what the papers inside of it said, and didn't need to put salt on the wound by examining them. "I'll have my secretary process these, and I'll keep you updated."

"Thank you," Vogler said graciously, and then he gave her another smile and left.

Cuddy was highly tempted to reach over and drop the envelope into the garbage can, but she knew better than that. As she had told House days ago, either you play or you lose. Just because her clinic was now going to lose one of its adjectives (albeit, a very attractive and consumer-friendly adjective) didn't mean that her hospital was going to the dogs. When you played with donors, you couldn't expect to come out with no favors to call in. She had known that, and she still did, so she set the envelope in her inbox and decided to deal with it later.

But, no. She really should deal with it now. This was going to spread like wildfire around the hospital, and if she took three or four days to start enacting it, people would sense weakness. They would start to question whether it had really been a unanimous vote up there in the meeting last night, if maybe there were some deeper currents running through the hospital politics.

All right, so Cuddy gave them a little more credit than that. You'd have to be an idiot if you didn't know that Vogler was the one calling the shots with the hospital these days.

She grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. Careful not to tear any of the papers inside, she pulled them out and then discarded the envelope in the garbage. It was, of course, a game plan for how they would be transitioning from a free clinic to a discounted clinic. She flipped through the pages, not really reading them but feeling obligated to see them before she handed them off to her secretary. It was a good, well thought out plan, she had to admit. But she wasn't happy with it. This was _her_ hospital, and not having control over something this large had been rattling. Part of her wondered if things might have turned out differently if Wilson hadn't gone away to his conference.

Part of her wondered if losing this much power was really worth the money that Vogler was giving the hospital.

Which was ridiculous. Of _course_ it was worth it—a hundred million dollars was so much money. This really wasn't a big deal, and it seemed to be the only major change that Vogler wanted in the hospital. Everything else he'd suggested had been more along the lines of a fundraising poker night, or implementing more trial programs. Safe things. It really wasn't that much to give this little thing up for the sake of so much money, was it?

"Cuddy!"

Cuddy tried not to cringe. Just who she needed to see right now.

"Hi," she said, setting down the papers like they were normal, everyday paper work that House would never in a million years be interested in. "You look better."

"Could use with another shot of morphine," House said, limping his way over to her desk.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "You've got Vicodin. Use it. And what are you doing in here?"

"What, can't I stop by to say hello to my favorite boss?" House asked innocently.

"No."

"What's going on with the clinic?" House laid down on her couch, head on the arm rest. He sighed in contentment and closed his eyes.

"You're not in it," Cuddy said, seizing the chance to get rid of House. "You don't have a case—down to the clinic. Now."

House cracked open an eye long enough to give her a stare. "Uh-huh. Right on that."

"If you don't feel up to going to the clinic, then you should go home," Cuddy said, and part of her could hardly believe that the words had just left her mouth. House was going to grab that and pull on it for all it was worth—but then again, she hadn't expected him to come in today. The car wreck had only been two nights ago, and House had to be sore. It would just be better if he went home and rested for another day.

"Tell me about Sunday night's meeting," House offered. "And I'll do my clinic duty."

"I'll tell you anything you want about Sunday night's meeting," Cuddy returned, "if you tell me why the hell you and Chase were in the same car, all the way over in West Princeton on Sunday night."

House was silent. "No fair," he grumbled.

Cuddy felt inordinately self-satisfied.

"I _can't_," he whined, drawing out the word so horribly that it was three syllables instead of one.

"Why not?" Cuddy asked.

House glared. "Because," he said crossly, managing to make the one word as petulant as if a three-year-old had just said it.

"All right," Cuddy sighed, rolling her eyes.

"What were you talking to Vogler about yesterday?" House asked, sitting up and swinging his legs to the side of the couch, watching Cuddy keenly.

"Why were you and Chase in the same car?" Cuddy shot back. She wasn't about to let House have anything while she had this over him. It was a rare enough occurrence that she didn't feel guilty doing it, either.

"Fine," House said, standing up. "Don't tell me. I have my sources."

Cuddy shook her head as House left her office, laughing slightly as she returned to the plan for the discounted clinic.

oOo

"Foreman!" House barked as he pushed open the door to the conference room.

His ducklings were sitting at the conference room table—Foreman and Cameron, in the wake of his absence, must have figured that they didn't have to make themselves scarce for a while. Chase was back to doing his crossword puzzle book. Foreman was reading a journal article, and Cameron was drinking a cup of something and staring off into the distance contemplatively. Or at least, they had been until House arrived, upon which all three of their heads snapped up.

House thrust a vial of blood into Foreman's hands. "Check the DNA for protein markers J598 and J599. Then I'm going home, and I want you to have three variably interesting cases on my desk by tomorrow morning."

"Why do you want it tested?" Foreman asked, taking the vial and holding it up to the light, as if this would somehow help him determine that it was, in fact, real blood and not water with food coloring. He looked suspicious.

Cameron, however, was staring at House in astonishment. "Is that _yours?_"

"It's Harvey's," House said. "I'm curious."

"What are the markers for?" Foreman asked, setting the blood on the table and waiting for an answer.

There was a beat of silence, as no one was really sure how to answer that one. Finally, Chase opened his mouth and spoke up.

"The gay gene," he said.

Foreman looked as surprised as Cameron looked outraged, but House spoke before either one of them could start talking. He really didn't have time to sit through an ethical debate about taking blood from patients and running illegal tests _or_ whether the protein markers were legitimate.

"Do it," he said, glaring at Foreman.

Foreman grabbed the vial and left. House, satisfied, went into his office to grab his coat.

oOo

Chase knew that if House could see him now, he'd have ripped him a new one. But he didn't care. Not now, not with everything that was going on at the moment.

He sat back in the office chair, throwing the red tennis ball back and forth between his hands as he thought. Chase vaguely wondered if House was rubbing off on him or if he'd always found the repetitive motions to be so comforting. He wondered about House in general, really. He'd been surprisingly quiet this morning, when Chase had come in to talk. He had been waiting for House to jump out of his chair and shout "boo!" and tell him that it was April Fool's Day, that Chase had work to do that didn't involve talking to him, and when had he gotten the idea that his boss cared about his problems, because he certainly didn't.

But House had seemed a little concerned, actually. And although that could be contributed to the fact that he was probably as high as a kite on the drugs he'd gotten yesterday in the ER, Chase didn't want to think about it that way. The way that House had acted this morning was almost... nice. It was something that Chase had never seen in him before, and he wished that he could have seen it sooner. That he could see it more often.

He threw the ball into his right hand, and then set it down on the desk before him. The chessboard glared up at him, and Chase studied it for a moment.

House was a good player—much better than Chase, really. But somehow, Chase seemed to have the upper hand in most corners. It might have been because he'd never had his entire life dependent on this game before, dependent on drawing it out long enough to keep House interested even after the game was over.

Chase suddenly realized that it was working. The quiet, subdued House that he had seen this morning had been a little puzzle piece he'd been allowed to see. If House was only in this for the sex, he wouldn't have exposed himself like that. He _had_ to see something more to this, even if he didn't consciously realize it. Chase was going to have to push things harder, and that was going to be difficult with his current refusal to have sex... But it might actually be an advantage.

Little by little, House was going to fall in love with him.


	12. As Long As You're Mine

**Untouchable  
Chapter 12  
**_(As Long As You're Mine)_

"I'm worried about House."

"What else is new?"

"I heard about the car crash—he called me up and left some glib message. I managed to get a few details out of him this morning."

"I'm surprised you were able to get anything from him at all. I don't imagine he told you why he and Chase were driving together?"

"_What?_"

"What did he tell you?"

"He just said that he'd been on his way to a bar, some car rear-ended him at a stop light. Gave me some of his injuries."

"House told you that he was alone?"

"He was with _Chase_ of all people?"

"I know. You said that he told you he was going to a bar?"

"I wouldn't trust it so much, now."

"They were over in West Princeton. Neither one of them lives over there—they must have been going somewhere..."

"West Princeton? They could have been going to Four Leaf."

"Is that a bar?"

"Yeah. One of House's favorites. How's Chase?"

"Well, he came out with a grade three concussion, first and second degree burns on his arms from the airbag, a cracked rib, bruising... About what you'd expect from a car crash like that. The windshield fell in on them—they're lucky that neither one of them had any major bleeding from it."

"Chase was driving?"

"Well, it was his car. House didn't tell you that his Corvette had actually gotten rear-ended, did he?"

"It, uh, sounded more convincing when he said it. God, I hate him..."

"I know. How bad did House make his injuries seem?"

"He brushed them off. Told me he had a grade one concussion, a sprained wrist—grade one or two—some burns and that he needed some stitches. Did he leave anything out?"

"No, not really. He had some bruising, too."

"Great. How's he doing now? It's been, what, two days?"

"He took Monday off, came in today. His team said that he left around two o'clock, and apparently told them to find him a case for tomorrow. I think he's bouncing back pretty well."

"All right, good."

"How's your conference?"

"It's going fine. I found a few potential trials—I think I sent you the emails?"

"Yes, I got them. I was a little confused where the funding for one of them was coming from, but you can explain it to me when you get back."

"Listen, I have to go—I'm sorry. I can try to call you tomorrow night."

"No, you enjoy your conference. I just wanted to talk about House, really."

"Okay then. Thanks for letting me know."

"When it comes to House? Anything I can do to make it easier on you."

"Yeah... Good night."

"Good night."

OoO

House found three case files sitting on his desk the following morning. He threw his coat over the back of his desk and considered picking them up right away, but instead he looked over to the conference room. All three of his team members were in there, all with their respective cups of coffee and typical entertainments—Cameron, some new Meg Cabot novel, Foreman, the newspaper, and Chase, some sort of puzzle book and his pencil for gnawing on in thought. Glad that they were being predictable—although, maybe not—and boring, House turned his attention to the three files.

One, he threw in the trash immediately. Boring—obviously paraneoplastic syndrome. The second was vaguely more interesting, but was showing signs of thyroid cancer, which was always a pain in the ass. He might have gone with it, but the third caught his interest.

"Got a case," House announced as he strolled into the conference room. He made his way over to the whiteboard.

"Which one?" Cameron asked.

House ignored her and wrote out the symptoms on the board. "Twenty-five year old female presents with jaundice and vomiting bloody-black stuff, came in with a fun fever of 105-point-something."

"Sounds like cirrhosis," Foreman said. "Or hep. What's the history?"

"Hippie," House said. "Got out of some artsy-fartsy liberal college, joined the Peace Corps for two years, signed up for the army a year ago."

"She joined the army—she's not a hippie," Cameron said. "Not anymore, at least. Maybe something happened to her in the Peace Corps that made her join the army? That's really unusual."

House shook his head. "Probably not relevant. Ask her later."

"Where was she stationed when she was in the Peace Corps?" Chase asked, setting his pencil down on the table and deserting his book for the moment.

In answer, House dropped the file onto the glass, and Chase picked it up. While they were waiting for Chase to find where it gave her Peace Corps base, Foreman continued the differential.

"It could be some kind of metabolic disorder," Foreman said.

"Those are genetic—there'd be a family history," Cameron pointed out, frowning up at the board in thought. "What if they're unrelated?"

"Gee," House said. "What kind of luck has this lady got?"

"It's possible!" Cameron protested.

"But not likely," House said, putting an end to the idea. He turned to Chase. "Hey, are you relearning to read over there? Where's this woman been?"

"Asia," Chase said. "Thailand—she spent two years there. Vaccinated before she went."

"Probably an infection anyways," Foreman said. "Or an STI."

House rolled his eyes. "So PC, Foreman. Brownie points for you."

"You don't think it's likely?" Foreman asked.

"I didn't say that," House said, turning around and writing Foreman's suggestions on the whiteboard. "Do you always have to twist my words around?"

Foreman sighed, apparently done trying to deal with House.

"What about her boot camp?" Chase suggested. "Living in close quarters for six weeks, there's bound to be something interesting growing in the showers."

House screwed his face in mock-thought. "How about... no? The rest of her unit isn't sick, are they?"

"We don't—"

"She just finished her AIT a week ago," House said, cutting him off. "Trust me, we would have heard a big ruckus if a whole unit of them got sick."

"What about an allergy?" Chase asked.

House actually gave that one a moment's thought. "Possible," he decided. "Not likely, but possible." And then he wrote it on the board. "Sounds good for now. Go get blood work, a chest x-ray and an EKG, and start her on interferon in case Foreman was right."

They stood up, ready to leave, but House raised a finger.

"Ah-ah-ah. Not you," he said to Cameron. "You have work to do."

Cameron looked at his in disbelief.

"What? Did your pimp daddy promise that he'd take care of it for you? Too bad." House jerked his thumb towards the back of the room. "Start ordering the bookshelves, by date of publication. Start with the oldest on the shelf to the right."

With a glare, Cameron abandoned Foreman and Chase and made her way over to the bookshelves. "I'm not working for Vogler."

"Yes, you've told me so," House said, watching as she began taking down an armful of books.

Foreman and Chase scattered like alley cats, and House ventured over to the coffee machine to pour himself a cup. He was feeling considerably less sore than yesterday, and even his left hand—both sprained and burnt—hurt less than it had before (which may or may not have had something to do with an extra Vicodin this morning). Chase, he had noticed, was not looking all that much better than he had the previous day. He was probably popping Tylenol 2 like candy, for the all the good they would do. It sort of made him feel a little guilty.

Then again, maybe it didn't.

House had a cup of steaming coffee in his hand as he retreated into his office. He tossed the potential case file he'd left on his desk into the garbage can and spared a glance at the chessboard. He needed to bring in a new one now that he'd brought the issue up to Chase. It also occurred to him that he needed to make a move, as it was his turn, and he was feeling a bit lost on what to do if sex wasn't an option.

Not wanting to think about that for the moment, House turned to his computer. Brenda should have emailed him yesterday with new reports on Vogler—and hopefully, there would be something in there about the clinic, and maybe even a juicy little piece about the death of the major donor.

He found the email quickly, this one entitled "What's black and white and talked about all over?"

—_Vogler asking about the details of your crash, and the health of you and Dr. Chase_

—_Decision final; the clinic is going to begin charging patients at a discounted rate. Dr. Cuddy still to disclose the plan for this_

—_Vogler eating in the cafeteria with Mrs. Goldstein_

—_Dr. Cameron spent longer periods of time than usual in Pediatrics_

—_Vogler talking to patient about food quality again_

It was shorter than yesterday—but then again, the hospital had been alight with the gossip about the clinic. It didn't leave much room for talk about Vogler or Cameron. Mrs. Goldstein (another benefactor of the hospital) was probably the most exciting thing on the whole page. But House saved it and clicked out of his inbox, pondering what Brenda had reported to him. She hadn't been kidding when she'd said that it would be worth his while—she was better than his ducklings when it came to snooping.

OoO

When Foreman and Chase returned to the conference room after doing a long series of tests, House had left his office. Cameron was still organizing books—there were a dozen piles on the table, haphazard and varying in height. Their entrance made Cameron glance up.

"Sorry about the mess," she said distractedly. "They're in stacks according to year—please don't knock them over."

Chase sat down in one of the chairs, careful not to bump the table as he did. "Where's House?"

"I don't know," Cameron said, not looking away from the row of books she was ordering. "He came in about a half an hour ago to rinse out his coffee mug. Didn't say a word to me."

It was quiet for a moment, and Foreman sat down across from Chase. He stared down at Cameron for a minute

"I talked to Annette before I tested Harvey's blood," Foreman said, turning his gaze to Chase. "She said that she hadn't left Harvey's room in the last eight hours—and I checked the blood types, and the blood House gave me is type AB. Harvey's type B."

"Did you test it?" Chase asked.

Foreman nodded. "Yeah. It was negative. But I wonder whose blood it was."

"Did anyone fall asleep yesterday?" Cameron said, getting on her knees and reaching for the stack of books on the table that was nearest to her.

"I did, for a while," Foreman said. "But I'm type O. It's not mine. Chase?"

Chase slowly shook his head. "I'm AB, but I didn't fall asleep yesterday."

"That's really weird," Cameron said. The stack of books was set down on the floor with a loud thump.

Foreman suddenly grinned wickedly. "I should lie," he said. "What do you think House'd do if I told him it came back positive?"

A frown creased Cameron's forehead. "I don't know..."

"Just tell him the truth," Chase said seriously. "I mean, you don't know whose blood that is. What if it's Cuddy's or something?"

Foreman looked disgruntled. "All right. Just a joke."

"Foreman told a joke?"

All three of them jumped, Cameron so badly that she dropped the book that she'd been holding. House was standing in the doorway in between his office and the conference room, looking deeply satisfied with himself.

"Yeah," Foreman said. "What do you call a cripple with an Olympic gold medal?"

"No idea," House said dryly, stepping into the room.

"A thief." Foreman sat back in his chair, looking vaguely smug at the punch line.

Unfortunately, House wasn't ruffled by the joke. He peered over at Cameron, who had resumed her work diligently. "What's the word with our liberal-gone-NRA member?"

"EKG was normal," Chase said. House turned to look at him, leaving Cameron alone for the moment, and Chase stared back at him evenly. "Blood work was pretty normal—slightly low white count. We're still waiting for the x-ray to process."

House nodded. "Good. We can wait for the x-ray for a little while."

"By the way," Foreman said, just as House was about to turn around and leave. "I tested the blood you gave me—whoever it is, because it wasn't Harvey, they're not gay."

House made a mock-serious face as he nodded towards Foreman, and then walked back into his office without a word.

Chase stood up and mumbled something about not receiving his W-2 statement and followed House a few second later. Foreman watched him with a surprised expression, and glanced over to find that Cameron was also staring after Chase with a baffled expression. He knew that Chase was still new to the States, but he didn't seriously think that you went to your _boss_ to complain about your W-2 statement? That was HR's problem.

"Should we tell him?" Cameron asked, watching Chase shut the door behind him.

Foreman shook his head. "I think he'll find out that he's in the wrong place soon enough."

OoO

House had not expected Chase to follow him.

"You know that it's my turn?" he asked as he seated himself in his chair. He hadn't done anything to piss Chase off, had he? Unless Chase was here to tell him that the sex ban that had been put in place was revoked, and that they should get down to the nearest on-call room before both of them were stuck with blue balls for the next three hours.

"I know it's your turn," Chase said dourly. "I don't care. I can still talk to you."

"But I don't have to tell the truth," House said with a triumphant smirk.

"Was that my blood?" Chase demanded, not even bothering to start arguing over the semantics of the conversation.

House was momentarily thrown off. "Your blood?"

"That you tested. It wasn't Harvey's—Harvey has type B blood, and the vial had AB. _I've_ got AB," Chase said, explaining it impatiently. "And I fell asleep yesterday. _Did you take my blood?_"

"I'd think that the feeling of being punctured would have been enough to wake you up," House pointed out.

"Not if you drugged me," Chase said, his eyes glittering. It was clear that he honestly believed House could and would have drugged him to get a sample of his blood.

"I didn't," House said, and he meant it. The thought of testing Chase hadn't even occurred to him—although now that he thought about it, it wouldn't have been a bad idea... But Chase was too suspicious now. He would be half expecting it.

Chase raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe you," he said, folding his arms over his chest.

"Well, that's your prerogative," House said with a shrug.

"If it wasn't mine, then whose was it?" Chase asked, uncrossing his arms with an expectant expression.

House snorted. "Yeah, right. I'm not telling you _that_."

Then, quite suddenly, an idea seemed to hit Chase. His face slowly went from outrage to a sort of smug thoughtfulness. A smile curled the corners of his mouth. "Okay," he said slowly. His smile widened. "House, I'm feeling better. Whenever you want to have sex, just let me know."

House watched him leave his office, feeling slightly stunned.

Even it hadn't technically been a move, House would have rated it as the most underhanded and clever in the game so far. He'd underestimated Chase's ability to play games, and now he'd really messed up. The cheeky little bastard had taken his weakness for sex and used to his advantage in a way that House hadn't anticipated. It wasn't even _fair_. His fellows weren't allowed to outsmart him, and especially not the fellows that he was sleeping with.

His first instinct was to call up Wilson to complain to him—but he couldn't do that without revealing the game. How else was he supposed to deal with his own self-imposed ban from sex? He couldn't make a move, not a single one, because as soon as he did Chase was going to shoot back and ask him whose blood he'd had tested. And he couldn't tell him that. There was no way.

Hopefully, Chase would only deny him sex—he could deal with that. It wasn't like he couldn't just hire a hooker, or jerk off in the shower. You couldn't become dependent on a single person in a week, could you? He was perfectly capable of surviving without having sex with Chase. He'd done it up until now, hadn't he?

OoO

The chest x-ray came back an hour later, and House rounded up his team in the conference room. Chase and Foreman sat at the table and Cameron, who was a little over halfway done, continued shelving the books. House stuck the x-ray up on the viewbox and turned it on.

"It's clean," Foreman said as he looked at it.

House nodded. "Sure. Anyone got an idea?"

"Something arboviral," Cameron said. "We should get an CT scan, check for swelling. And we should double-check her white count."

"No one's got anything?" House asked, ignoring Cameron. "Wow, you guys suck."

Foreman looked exasperated. "Something arboviral. House, stop playing games."

"Arboviral," House said, considering the idea. "Not bad. Boot camp's a bitch. What else?"

Cameron decided to try again. "The interferon didn't do anything, but if it's just resistant hepatitis, it wouldn't anyway."

House kept waiting expectantly for someone to speak up, acting as if Cameron had never spoken at all.

"Resistant hepatitis," Foreman said. Then, after a beat, he added, "Or stomach cancer."

"Geeze, did you all catch laryngitis? Why is Foreman the only one talking here?" House asked, enjoying Cameron's mouth, which was opening and closing as she wrestled with the urge to say something. Chase, however, just looked bored. "All right, fine. Foreman, Chase, go do some more blood work—check for hepatitis, dengue, West Nile, malaria, the whole shebang—and get a CT scan."

Foreman stood up, but Chase remained seated. He reached across the table and pulled the book of crossword puzzles over to where he was sitting.

"Go on, Chase. Do your job," House said coaxingly, as if he were trying to convince a toddler to go play with the other kids.

"No," Chase said simply, uncapping his pen and opening the book.

Foreman and Cameron were staring at him with open astonishment. Chase didn't even seem to notice.

"I'm not paying you to sit on your ass and do puzzles," House said, crossing the room and snatching the book away. "Go with Foreman."

Chase stared up at him impassively. "You have Cameron. Can I have my book back?"

"No." House glanced around at the two positively stunned faces that were watching the little display. "Cameron, go help Foreman. And stay out of Pediatrics."

Cameron hurriedly stood up, leaving a stack of books on the floor, and pulled Foreman out of the room, no doubt wanting to leave before House could change his mind. The door shut behind them quietly, and House glared down at Chase.

"I can report you for insubordination," he threatened.

Chase didn't even blink. "I can tell Cuddy what you've been doing to Cameron."

"I haven't been doing anything to Cameron," House said. "I need you to do your job."

"Make me," Chase said, uncharacteristically cocky.

House could have strangled him.

OoO

"Hi, House," Wilson said. He smiled at the cashier as he showed her his ID card, and she nodded at him. Taking his tray and carefully balancing it in one hand, he turned around and began searching for an empty table.

"Hiya," House said. "I've got a patient. Twenty-five year-old female, presenting with jaundice and bloody vomit. EKG was clean, blood work's clear, interferon's done nothing and a chest x-ray came back with nothing. How likely is stomach cancer?"

Wilson took a second to catch up with House. "Uh, stomach cancer? Without any stomach pain?"

"Well, she's been throwing up like a bulimic," House said. "Pain could be lurking around in there."

"Does she have a fever?" Wilson asked. He saw a young couple gathering their things at a little table in the corner, and made a beeline for it.

"Checked in at 105," House said. "They brought it down, obviously."

Wilson frowned in thought. He set his tray down on the table and pulled out the chair. "It could be. I don't think it's very likely, though. What about Wilson's disease?"

"You would say that, wouldn't you?" House said.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, the joke was old ten years ago."

"Yeah, and so were bell bottoms—but they're making a comeback, aren't they?"

"Seriously," Wilson said. He poured out the little cup of dressing and used his fork to spread it around the salad. "Has she shown any psychological symptoms?"

"How should I know?" House sounded annoyed. "I don't visit my patients."

"Check her copper levels, just to be safe," Wilson said. He poked at his salad thoughtfully, not taking a bite. Instead he grabbed the can of lemonade (because everything seemed to come in aluminum cans these days, whether it be Pepsi or tomato juice) and opened it.

House was silent for a minute, and Wilson took the opportunity to sip his lemonade. It was overly sweet, but a nice change from the water he'd been chugging for the last three days.

"Did you hear about the clinic?" House asked suddenly.

"I heard that you lied to me," Wilson said, having already heard about the final decision from Cuddy last night. "How's Chase?"

"Who'd you talk to?" House demanded. "Cuddy. Of course you talked to Cuddy. She told you about the clinic, then. Dammit."

Wilson frowned in confusion. "House? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," House muttered.

"What's going on with Vogler?" Wilson asked. "Is he going after you again?"

"No," House said, sounding strangely sullen about this.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Wilson asked, sitting back in his chair and resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck.

He could just picture House thinking about this, bouncing his cane on the floor with his blue eyes darting around the room furtively.

"I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is," Wilson prodded.

"Never mind," House said at last. "I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some ass to kick."

"House—"

But House had hung up. Wilson sighed and flipped his cell phone shut, stuffing it into his pocket. He stabbed into his salad with more force than necessary and, not for the first time, wished that he'd stayed back in Princeton.

OoO

They were running a CT scan. Their patient—her name was Wendy—was lying in the room beyond them while the machine whirred and thumped away. Foreman glanced over at Cameron, who was watching the coronal view and intently focused on the image of Wendy's frontal lobe. He turned back to his own computer, showing the sagittal view, and focused. They were looking for swelling, but so far, he wasn't seeing anything off.

"What do you think's up with Chase?" Cameron commented. She had, up until now, had been blessedly silent.

Foreman shrugged. "He's spoiled. Probably not used to doing actual work. House isn't doing him any favors by letting him get his way."

"I don't think—"

Foreman snorted. "Trust me. He knew what he was doing when he did that, and he knew that he was going to get away with it, too."

"I guess so," Cameron said reluctantly. "There might be something else going on, though."

"Like what?" Foreman asked. "Vogler tell you something?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Foreman saw Cameron turn to stare at him in disbelief.

Foreman took his eyes off the screen, looking back at her with raised eyebrows. "What? Are you going to tell me that you aren't working with him?"

"No, I'm not," Cameron said indignantly. "You mean you actually believe House?"

He shrugged. "Who else would have done it? I didn't. Chase is too wrapped up in himself to think that Vogler's actually a serious threat."

"Why would I run to Vogler?" Cameron asked, sounding more outraged than Foreman really wanted to deal with. "I _like_ House, remember?"

"I'm just saying," Foreman said, turning his eyes back to the screen. "Out of the three of us, it would make the most sense if it was you."

Cameron's lips thinned, and she went back to her own screen, silently fuming.

OoO

Chase had never had the upper hand when it came to House. Ever. He'd always been stumbling along behind him, trying desperately to keep up without going completely loony tunes. And now he actually House on a leash and was dragging him around. It was a strange feeling. He almost didn't like it.

What if he messed things up? What if his plan backfired? How long could House stand not being in charge? How long before he lashed out and Chase ended up getting hurt? House was still the smarter of them. He was playing with fire without a fire extinguisher, and the thrill was wearing off. This was dangerous. From his spot in the conference room, Chase could see House incessantly bouncing his red tennis ball against the wall. He wondered if House knew that he'd been doing the same thing last night, but he doubted it. How could he?

He was curious about whose blood House had tested, but was more interested in how long House would hold out—if he would give in at all—and how he would give in. If he would try to wriggle his way, find some loophole or distraction to snare Chase in.

"Shit," he muttered. He wasn't good at this. If he'd ever been in a relationship, then House had been in a thousand and Chase had no idea where the hell he was taking this. House did. Or at least, he pretended to, which was more than Chase was able to do. It would almost be more interesting to see how long he himself could hold out as the one in charge.

Then suddenly, House was standing in the doorway.

Something red came flying his way, and Chase caught it just in time. The red tennis ball. Of course.

"Yeah?" Chase asked, spinning the ball between his fingers.

House smiled. "I'm giving you a ride home tonight. The 'Vette totally beats out public transportation."

"Cool," Chase said immediately, and then he stopped. "Wait a minute. "No—no, you're not giving me a ride home. I'm fine."

House's smile widened. "Yes, I am." And then he disappeared back into his office, leaving a very confused Chase behind him.


	13. The Ride of Your Life

**Untouchable  
Chapter 13  
**_(The Ride of Your Life)_

Chase looked over suspiciously. "Are you trying to bribe me?" he tried.

"Why would I be bribing you?" House said, sounding oddly pleasant as he said it. "I know those buses. They suck."

Giving up, Chase sat back in his seat and stared out the window moodily. The car was nice he admitted (although he was a little confused as to why House was parked all the way back with the nurses and interns and such). The car was a hell of a lot nicer than the public buses that trundled down the streets, flying over potholes with a driver who didn't know the difference between the gas and brake pedal. Of course he preferred the Corvette.

But he felt like House had some cunning, diabolical plan behind all this that he should have figured out by now. Actually, he _knew_ that House had some cunning, diabolical plan behind this, because the man didn't even go to the bathroom without having a cunning, diabolical plan behind it. Chase just didn't know how driving him home after work was cunning or diabolical—unless the plot was to make him run around in circles, searching for cunning, diabolical plots where there were none.

That would be very cunning and diabolical.

Another idea occurred to him.

"You know that when I said you could give me a ride," Chase said, "I only meant the one in the car." He cast House a sidelong glance as he waited for the response.

House smirked. "Yeah, I know. Don't you worry—when I want to jump your pretty little bones, I'll let you know beforehand."

Chase didn't know what to say to that, so he leaned back and was about to go back to staring out the window when he realized something. "How do you know the way to my apartment?"

House didn't answer for a moment.

"What, you just Mapquested it or something?" Chase asked, not wanted to ask House if he'd actually been to his apartment before, because he didn't trust House to say no.

House shook his head. "You young things are so focused on your computers and GPS trackers and whatnot." Chase refrained from mentioning House's addiction to his iPod and GameBoy. "I went to Human Resources and grabbed your address—and after living here for nearly fifteen years, I sort of know my way around."

"Oh," Chase said. That did sort of make sense. This was what happened when he tried to out-think House—he ended up looking like an idiot.

OoO

Chase was quiet. Wendy had died today—yellow fever from a vaccine she'd gotten a month ago. They had solved it too late—much, much too late. So Cameron had slouched off to give her the bad news, and Chase had tackled the paperwork. Boring and monotonous—but safe. It was a nice feeling, sometimes. In life, there were too many variables for anything to be safe.

"Am I getting the cold shoulder?" House suddenly asked.

"No," Chase said, looking over to him. "I just don't have anything to say."

House nodded pensively. "Right," he said, and from the single syllable, Chase couldn't tell whether it was agreeable or mocking.

"Tell me why you're not parking in your usual spot," Chase said, the idea suddenly occurring to him.

"Not your business," House said evenly.

He decided to go in for the kill.

"I know whose blood you tested," Chase said casually.

House barely batted an eye. "Good for you," he said. "Going to tell me who it was, oh intelligent one?"

"It wasn't one of us," Chase said, referring to Cameron, Foreman and himself. "But it was Foreman who forgot to dispose of the sample you gave him in the lab."

"How careless of him," House said lightly.

Chase nodded in agreement, but didn't say anything.

"Thought you knew who it was," House said, taunting him. Goading him.

"I do," Chase said.

House snorted. "No, you don't."

Chase shrugged, ignoring the flare of pain from his ribcage. "All right."

"You're bluffing," House said, his tone scarcely belying his confidence about this.

"Am not," Chase said, suppressing the urge to grin.

House sighed, clearly irritated. "Look, keep it on the DL, would you? Wilson met someone at a conference a month ago. You know him, he's a man whore. Couldn't help himself."

"And you cleverly waited until Wilson was at a conference to test it, so no one would suspect?" Chase asked.

"Well, duh," House said.

Chase smirked. "See, that would make sense. If it was actually Wilson's blood that you tested."

"It was Wilson's blood," House insisted.

"No it wasn't," Chase said. "You've got to make a right here."

House slammed on the brakes as they nearly passed the side street, and Chase bit down on his lip hard to keep himself from gasping at the pain in his ribcage. God damn that _hurt_, hurt like a bitch to breathe. It throbbed and ached so badly that Chase felt slightly nauseous as he forced himself to take another breath.

As House turned the corner, Chase saw him grinning.

OoO

"You made Cameron cry," Chase said, not able to keep the anger out of his voice.

"She had it coming," House said, rolling his eyes. "And she doesn't need you to be a knight in shining armor—she did this to herself."

Chase gritted his teeth, forcing himself to think about what he was going to say before anything left his mouth. "You don't have any proof," he said. "What if someone's framing her?"

"Framing her?" House sounded amused. "Lenny Briscoe teach you that one?"

"No. You made her _cry_. How far are you going to push her until you believe her?" Chase asked, trying not to get as riled up as he felt. House was obviously toying with him.

"I'm waiting for her to admit it," House said matter-of-factly. "But in the meantime. Framing her?"

"Vogler," Chase said resolutely, not wanting to finger anyone that House particularly liked. "He would love to mess with your mind like this."

House looked away from the road to give Chase a look. "Uh-huh. Perhaps it was the person-who-isn't-gay that's behind it all, too?

"I doubt that," Chase scoffed, almost snorting but deciding that it wouldn't be worth the pain.

"Why not?" House asked innocently.

Suddenly, the car was stopped and Chase realized that they were at his apartment. "Lay off of her," he said as he picked up his messenger bag. "She didn't do anything wrong." And then he got out of the car, slamming the door shut with more force than was necessary.

OoO

The car was silent. House drove on without offering a word, and Chase was all too happy to sit there and gaze out the window with his thoughts. Cameron had nearly cried again today, and it made him sick. She was beginning to break, and he hated himself with such a fury that he'd nearly called in sick this morning so that he wouldn't have to watch it anymore. He couldn't do anything about it, not even comfort her, tell her that he believed her, because it was too risky. She'd be suspicious.

But he couldn't sleep at night anymore, knowing what she was going through. It must be horrible. Cameron had to feel absolutely _alone_, with House tormenting her at every turn, Foreman silently nodded in agreement in the corner, and he himself just passively sitting there. Not doing anything, like he didn't care at all. He _did_ care.

And he was so confused. When Wilson came back, he could talk to him. Wilson would be able to do something about it, and it wouldn't look too suspicious if Chase merely went to Wilson about House being a bastard to Cameron, would it? It might even throw off any suspicions he had about him and House.

"Whose blood do you think I tested?" House suddenly asked.

"I know whose blood you tested," Chase said after a moment. "And if you'd make a damn move, then I could prove it to you."

"Uh-huh," House said.

And then it was silent again.

OoO

"So you either won't tell me whose blood I tested because you don't know," House said, drawing out a long, pointed silence before continuing. "Or you do know, and you don't want to say it out loud—for whatever reason. You're scared, you're pissed, you can't pronounce the name, etc., etc..."

"Or," Chase said, "I don't think that I need to prove myself to you. I know who you tested, and it doesn't matter to me. Isn't that enough for you?" He stopped, looked at the name of the street they'd passed, and then frowned. "This isn't the way to my apartment, by the way."

"No. Just because I'm giving you a ride home doesn't mean that I trust you," House said, rather flatly. "And if you really knew who it was, then you wouldn't riding in the car with me. Therefore, you're lying."

Chase rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'm lying. Whatever. Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

House nudged his cane. "Need a new one. Hospital ones don't fit on my bike."

"Right," Chase said after a second's thought. He'd wondered where House got his canes before. He also wondered if it meant anything that House had decided to bring _him_ along to pick out his new one. Maybe it did. Maybe he didn't need to play that stupid chess game to keep House interested in him anymore.

That was good. If things kept moving fast... The faster he could get House to fall in love with him, the sooner this would be over, and the sooner he could do what Vogler wanted. He hated being under Vogler's thumb.

OoO

"Cuddy asked me about the chessboard today," Chase said as he opened the passenger door to House's car for the sixth night in a row.

"And you said?"

"I said that I had no idea what it was doing in your office." Chase put his messenger bag in the car first, and then got in himself. "She said that Cameron and Foreman told her the same thing, so—"

"She'll be coming directly to me, next," House said, making a face as he sidled into the driver's seat. Car doors slammed shut, and a minute later, House had the car running. "I'll have to come up with some excuse."

Chase nodded. "You know that you do have to continue the game, right? You'll forfeit if you don't make a move."

"What, is there a time limit?" House asked, gunning out of the parking lot with a speed that made Chase discretely hold onto the door handle.

"No," Chase said after they made it out onto a street, where it was a bit safer to go thirty-five. "But my fellowship does expire in two years."

OoO

House was gloating. Quietly, at least, but he was gloating all the same.

Chase felt disgusted with himself. He wasn't in any mood to deal with House, to even look at him. He just wanted to take some sleeping pills and curl up in bed and sleep for eternity and not have to deal with what he'd done. That he hadn't intended for things to spin out of control like this was a wisp of comfort, and it blew away in the wind of Cameron's hunched shoulders and trembling hands as she pushed open the door.

He felt rotten.

"I was right," House said proudly.

Chase squeezed his eyes shut and felt his brain cells implode with the effort not to do something rash. He wanted to scream, to throw up, to sob, he wanted—he wanted to tell House the truth. He wanted this whole thing to be over.

"The _agony_ of defeat," House said dramatically. "The ego crumbles, struck hard by the blow of truth."

"Shut up," Chase said, desperate. He was begging and he didn't care.

House seemed to radiate smugness. "You heard it from Cameron's mouth. She's working for Vogler."

"She said to get you to lay off of her!" Chase said, suddenly furious. He looked over to House, anger fueling him and blowing out his exhaustion from the day. "She knew what to say to make you happy! All she wants is for you to lay off of her—if lying gets her a reprieve, what do you think she's going to do? God, House, _anyone_ would have said they were working for Vogler after what you've done to her!"

House looked over to him in interest. "You get so passionate about this. One would think you were sleeping with Cameron, not me."

"We're not sleeping together," Chase said incredulously. "You call this 'sleeping together'? This is one of the most—bizarre—impossible—I don't even know what to call it."

"I believe the proper term would be 'fuck buddies'," House said, raising his hand and nodding with authority.

"But we're not having sex." Chase leaned back in the seat of the car, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. "We're not even having sex."

"You were wrong," House said, unperturbed. "Accept it."

"I'm not wrong," Chase insisted, still staring at the ceiling. He wanted out of the car. He wanted to never see House again. He wanted to stop thinking about every word that left his mouth, wondering if House was suspicious yet, if he already knew and was biding his time, what he would do if he ever found out... And Cameron. He wanted to stop thinking about Cameron.

OoO

He watched Cameron walk out the door, leaving without saying goodbye to anyone. As she walked away, her entire posture seemed to scream defeat and exhaustion, and Chase steeled off his reflexive guilt. There was nothing he could do about it, now.

"You coming?" House asked, raising his eyebrows when he saw that Chase didn't even have his coat on.

Chase looked up, and felt such a rush of relief and longing that he almost opened his mouth and spilled out all of his secrets. He was tired of playing this by himself, because everything he'd tried had only made things worse. He needed help, and he knew that House would have some way out of this. But... What would House say when he realized that Chase had been playing him all this time?

Chase slowly shook his head. "No. I can take the bus tonight—I don't even live near you, and gas is expensive. You don't have to go out of your way."

"You suck at lying," House informed him.

But Chase was determined. He couldn't fix Cameron, but he could have House. He would drag him through another step of their relationship, make him chase him for a little while—for the game. He had to get House back to playing the game. So he dug in his heels.

"Go home," Chase said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

House shrugged. "Your loss." And then he limped out the door without looking back.

OoO

Chase took the bus home the following day, as well. He sat next to a sort-of-pregnant teenager who was texting with a fervor and an old man who kept fiddling with—after a few glances—a pair of nose-hair clippers. It wasn't that bad. And anyways, it was for the game.

OoO

"Chase!" House poked his head outside of his office, watching with something akin to glee as Chase jumped.

Chase was the only one left. Cameron and Foreman had left after dropping off the paperwork from their latest patient, as they had their own cars and therefore could leave whenever they so pleased. He, on the other hand, had his schedule dictated by the schedules of public transportation. Which, tonight, meant that he would be going home in about an hour. So he'd resigned himself to the conference room table with the newspaper and a can of Red Bull.

"Yeah?" he said, setting the half-empty can on the table.

House jerked his head in a 'get over here' motion. "You're not riding the bus tonight. I got the bike."

Chase's mouth opened, but too many things were fighting to be said and nothing came out. "I—I don't have a helmet," he finally blurted out. As soon as he heard it, he wanted to kick himself. Duh. House was going to be all over him.

But House held up a helmet—Chase recognized it a minute later as his own helmet. "Wear mine," House offered. "You've got better hair, anyways."

"I don't—" Chase started, and then he stopped, considering what he was going to say before he came out with something stupid again. Cameron flashed through his mind, but he shoved her away before he could think about it for too long. He was talking to House, not Cameron. She didn't matter right now.

House limped in, dropping the helmet onto the table with a thud. "Yes, you do."

Chase couldn't deny it. And that night, he pulled the helmet over his head, climbed onto House's motorcycle, wrapped his arms around House's waist and tried not to squeeze too tightly as they zoomed out of the parking lot.

OoO

"Isn't Wilson coming home this week?" Chase asked tentatively. He fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag absentmindedly, staring off into the distance as he waited for House to respond. It was light outside, and he was exhausted. He didn't want to look at the clock, even though he already knew that it was six o'clock in the morning, because it would only confirm that yes, he'd been awake for over twenty-four hours. And even House's relentless diagnostic sessions and seven cups of coffee weren't enough to push him through the car ride home. If he didn't keep talking, he was going to fall asleep.

"Yeah," House said eventually. He drove on, not offering anything more.

Chase wondered whether or not he should push his luck. He blinked once—twice—three times, and then his head tipped forward and everything went black. He jerked it up a split second later, taking a breath as he told himself that he would _not_ go to sleep in House's car.

"I hear that Vogler's brother had a heart attack," he said. He wondered if his accent sounded thicker than usual, or if it was just his ears, which were buzzing and making everything sound like it was being shouted from the bottom of a well.

"Cameron did look a little upset today," House said lightly.

Chase sighed. "How long do you think he's going to be gone?"

"What, just because he's in Trenton, he's not going to watch every move that goes on here?" House snorted. The 'duh' was implied. "Yeah, right, blondie. Keep dreaming."

They ran over a pothole, and the car jolted roughly—Chase barely felt it. "Uh-huh," he muttered, the world around him flickering. He felt tired and comfortable, and his head felt heavy. His eyes blinked—he had to blink, after all, but when had blinking made everything so dark? He couldn't stop and he wondered if he was falling asleep, because he couldn't fall asleep, not here in House's car because he'd wake up in some alley or... Or something. But he was tired. House wouldn't do anything, would he? He... no. Just for a minute.

Chase suddenly felt something sharp prod him in the ribs, and he yelped.

"Ow! Dammit!" he swore, looking around wildly with one hand pressed to his throbbing side.

"Wake up," House said, to his left.

He looked over and glared. "What was that for?" he demanded, shaking hair out of his eyes.

House grinned. "You fell asleep, moron. You're home sweet home—go on, get out. Wasting gas here."

"I fell asleep?" Chase asked, frowning. He couldn't have. He'd only blinked, just once or twice.

"Go get sleep," House said, jerking his thumb towards—Chase looked—his apartment complex. Oh. "And then go buy a car. It's been almost two weeks."

Chase blinked as he suddenly realized that it _had_ been two weeks since his car had been totaled. Oops.

"Sometime today, maybe?" House suggested.

Chase rolled his eyes and climbed out of the car. Above him, the sky bled with the colors of a sunrise.

OoO

Theoretically, this would be his last car ride with House. He'd dragged himself to a car dealership yesterday and had milled around, looking at dozens of hundreds of cars, all immaculate and lined up like it was a drive-in. The check that his insurance company had sent him had been generous (he wouldn't dare to chance his luck and call it excessive), and the whole thing had happened rather quickly. Tomorrow, the thing would be finalized and then he wouldn't have to rely on the bus or House for a ride.

Wilson was also back, which meant that it would have been impossible for House to keep giving Chase a ride home every night without him taking notice. So even if Chase hadn't finally gotten a new car, it would have had to have come to an end regardless.

But only theoretically. Because you never knew with House.

"I know whose blood you tested," Chase said, something about it being their last night making him feel brave.

"You know whose blood I tested," House repeated, making fun of him.

"You tested yourself," Chase told him. He watched House carefully. "You were curious."

House didn't say anything for a second, and then he suddenly braked, making a radical left into a parking lot. His tires squealed as he turned sharply, and then he drove back onto the road—only in the opposite direction.

Chase stared. "Where are we going?" he asked cautiously.

House looked over to him with a wild grin. "My place. Rook to H5."

As House drove on, Chase didn't realize that he was smiling until he caught sight of his reflection in the side mirror. And as he saw it, he suddenly understood that it wasn't about the game. That it hadn't been about the game for a long time.


	14. Don't Let It Be Love

**Untouchable  
Chapter 14  
**_(Don't Let It Be Love)_

House awoke to the sound of something dropping—something plastic and hard.

He opened his eyes, alert and wary. His bedroom ceiling was dark, but as he blinked, his eyes began to adjust to the dim lighting. Adrenaline raced through his body as he listened, almost with a catlike alertness, body stiff and poised. He heard someone swear, pick something up and set it down. Then there was the sound of feet padding across hard floors—his own floors. The sounds got father away. Who—

And then he remembered.

"What are you doing?" he yelled, and although it came out as nothing more than a hoarse croaking, the sounds instantly stopped. House glanced over to the clock. Three-thirty in the fucking morning—what the hell was Chase doing?

Chase didn't respond, though, and after a second, the sounds picked up again.

House groaned. He wasn't getting out of bed, and if he took another Vicodin right now, he'd be all messed up, and Wilson would get pissed off if he greeted him in the morning with a rattle-less bottle. And pissy Wilson was not something that he could have today, because Cuddy was going to give him a case today. It had been nearly three days since his last, and she was long overdue to assert her feminine powers and force another patient on him.

"I'm not getting up!" he said loudly. "So you'd better get over here!"

There was a pause, and then the patterns changed. He heard footsteps coming closer, and then the sound of the door creaking open.

House pushed himself up on his elbows, raising his eyebrows at Chase.

"I—I have to go," Chase mumbled. He was half-dressed, with his shirt unbuttoned and no shoes on. He didn't look at House as he spoke; directionally speaking, it was a little lower and to the right. Sort of like he was staring at the base of the bed. "Sorry."

"Now?" House asked, his hand grabbed the clock and lifting it up for emphasis. "You have to leave right _now?_"

Chase nodded, reaching up and brushing hair out of his eyes. And then he was gone.

"Well, who's going to make my coffee?" House asked, his voice ringing off the walls. He lowered the clock back onto the night stand and glanced at the orange bottle next to it. No, not yet.

More noises. Fabric rushed, shoes squeaked, and then a coat zipped. The door slammed shut a moment later, and House let his elbows give way. He flopped back down onto his bed, exhaling loudly to the silent apartment and glaring at the ghosts up on the ceiling.

"Oh, shut up."

And then he reached for a pillow and pressed it against his face. God dammit.

oOo

House gave up trying to get back to sleep after a while, and ended up going into work early. He encountered Wilson on the elevator, and was treated the sight of his stunned face. House smiled back at him pleasantly.

"Good morning, Wilson," he said cheerily as the elevator doors opened, and they both stepped on.

Wilson was staring at him with something akin to suspicion. "Why are you here so early?"

"Because I love working here," House said. "It's the happiest place on earth!"

"Right. You know that Vogler's brother is doing well? He's returning on Thursday," Wilson informed him.

"He left on Sunday!" House protested, making a bigger deal out of it than necessary. Vogler had left him alone for the last few weeks, and suspicious as that was, it was easier to figure out why with Vogler here in Princeton than away in wherever he was… Trenton?

Wilson nodded. "I know. Sorry to spoil your good mood."

"Nope," House said, grinning widely again. "Not ruined."

"You look..." Wilson trailed off, looking at him hard for a minute, and then realization dawned on his face. "Never mind. I _know_ that look."

House smirked. "It was good."

"Apparently not that good," Wilson said with a pointed look at the cup of Starbucks in House's hand. "She had to run?"

House shrugged. "Woke up, wasn't there. Didn't even leave me a cup of coffee."

"But she was over your apartment," Wilson said. He made a swipe at the coffee cup, but House was too quick for him. "Not that you probably care, but if you bring her home, you're supposed to make the coffee in the morning."

"Those rules apply to guys, too?" House asked.

"Well, yeah," Wilson said. "They don't only apply to women."

House raised his eyebrows, waiting for it.

"Wait," Wilson said slowly. "You mean..."

House shrugged, avoiding Wilson's incredulous stare.

Wilson appeared to be struggling to find something to say. "Seriously?" he finally said.

The doors opened with a ding, and House grinned. "Psych."

"House!"

He limped down the hallway, feeling pleased with himself. The only thing that was going to beat out these little jokes was when Wilson found out that he actually _was_ sleeping with another guy. Regardless of the fact that his DNA had told him that he wasn't gay. Maybe they just hadn't found the bisexual markers yet.

Cuddy hadn't cornered him as soon as he'd stepped into the hospital, which had been interesting. House was almost wary of her—unless Vogler had fired her yesterday. Wouldn't that have been interesting? He would even get to say "I told you so," when she managed to fight her way back into the hospital. And in the meantime, there would be no one to make him take cases or do clinic duty or...

Hey. This wasn't sounding half bad.

"Good morning," Foreman said as House pushed open the door.

Cameron and Foreman were waiting for him inside of his office, Foreman in his armchair and Cameron at his desk. His computer was on, and Cameron appeared to be sorting through his email. House frowned and was about to say something to her when he noticed that she was absentmindedly spinning a chess piece between her fingers as she did so. He crossed the room in three strides and plucked it out of her hand.

"Hey!" Cameron said indignantly, looking up from the screen.

House paid her no mind, looking down at the chess board and figuring out where it would go. It was Chase's queen, which meant that it hadn't been moved yet so it would go... D1. He set it on its little square, and then reached over and exited out of his email.

"Out of my computer. There's nothing there that Vogler wants," House said. He stepped back and turned to glance at the conference room while Cameron got out of the way. "Where the hell is Chase?"

House turned his head back in time to see Foreman roll his eyes. "He the hell called in sick. Said he'd caught the stomach flu."

"He lied," House said, sitting down in his chair and turning it so that he was facing Cameron and Foreman. "Go break into his house and find out what he's hiding."

"He sounded pretty sick to me," Foreman said, not moving.

House leaned forward, lowering his voice and putting it in a hoarse rasp. "Oh? He sounded pretty sick?" He switched back to a normal tone, point proven. "Even your garden variety teenager knows how to sound sick on the phone. Foreman—go. Return with answers."

But Foreman shook his head. "Can't. I've to go take care of a speeding ticket in an hour."

"You're making that up," House said, glaring at him accusingly.

"Unfortunately not," Foreman said. He dug into a pocket and pulled out a pink slip of paper. "You can call city hall if you're really interested."

House waved a hand. "Put that away before you get your bad juju all over the room. Cameron—consider this your lucky day. You can finish the blinds later. Go see what's up with Chase."

Cameron was up and out of the room in a flash, leaving House and Foreman to glare at each other, until Foreman finally muttered something about picking up lunch in the cafeteria before he left, and then he was gone. House sat back in his chair and contemplated the board before him.

oOo

Chase was officially freaking out.

He'd told himself that no matter what happened, he _would_ _not_ let himself go to House's apartment. That had been a base rule that he'd established from the very beginning. What the hell had been going through his head last night? He had just been...

The game. House had started the game back up, and he'd been excited. He'd been stupid.

Chase had no idea what had happened over the last three weeks. He'd gone from... He didn't know. It didn't make any _sense_. One plus one did not equal three. It was like Foreman expressing a sudden desire to become a ballerina. It was messed up. It was wrong. How had he even gotten here? He clearly remembered thinking that ending up at House's place would be The Worst Idea Ever, complete with the capital letters. Something had gone wrong. Obviously, he had forgotten that rule. Maybe he should have it tattooed on his hand, just in case he forgot again.

Dammit. He wasn't gay. He didn't need to test his DNA for protein markers to know that. Girls were good. Girls were _hot_.

House was sort of hot.

Girls had boobs.

House didn't have boobs. Therefore, girls got a plus.

House also didn't have a vagina.

Plus two for girls.

He didn't like guys. He _didn't_. He knew that anyone passing by him on the street would assume so—whether it was his stupid hair or the way that he dressed—but he didn't. The only reason he'd ever even considered... House. The only reason was because of Vogler. Because he'd been forced. And that was not a basis for any relationship, no matter how contrived it was.

That could be it, Chase mused. Maybe he'd been playing this game so well, fabricating feelings so realistically that he'd gotten drawn into the game himself. He'd just tricked his brain into thinking that the game was real, that the real objective was to win House's heart because he loved him, not to appease Vogler. Not to have to...

No. This was why he couldn't be gay, why he couldn't do the whole caring thing with House. It was entirely pointless, stupid, because he was going to have to listen to Vogler in the end. If he didn't care, then only House would get hurt. If he got involved in an honest-to-god relationship, it would only end in disaster and he would end up hurt, too. It was the smart thing to do. Whatever he was feeling, whatever his brain had been thinking last night in the car with House—it couldn't happen again. It wasn't worth it, in the end.

House wasn't anyone that you could get involved with, anyways, without seeing the destruction on the horizon. All Chase was doing was speeding things up a little. Even if Vogler disappeared to Ghana to feed starving children tomorrow, leaving no trace of their deal behind, he knew that this thing with House wouldn't last. He had too much baggage, he was too young, he barely understood House, House was too narcissistic, House was his _boss_... Hell, House wasn't even gay, according to his DNA. That was a surefire sign, right there.

It would only be for a little while longer. He knew that Vogler would be swooping down any time now to give him the go, and then it would be over and he could move on and find somebody that would last. Someone who was actually capable of sustaining a relationship with another human being. Someone who was smart, who didn't already know him inside out. Someone who wouldn't play games with him and push him to the breaking point and beyond, just for fun. Someone who—

Chase abruptly stood up, staring around his apartment like he actually had a purpose and direction for his actions. He needed something to distract him. Anything. He was such an idiot for calling in sick.

oOo

Cameron was a little nervous about going to see Chase. She'd never been over to his apartment, and she didn't consider him to be anything more than a coworker. Which was why she'd vetoed the idea of picking up a bowl of soup and saltines from the cafeteria and bringing it to him—she'd look like an idiot if she showed up and he wasn't even sick. It would just be best if she showed up, explained that House hadn't believed Chase's excuse and was sending her to spy on him. Chase would probably just roll his eyes.

She found his apartment easily enough. It was in a neighborhood near her own, actually.

The door—she compared the number on the slip of paper to the number on the door at least three times before she was convinced that she was in the right place—was rather imposingly blank. Just a solid door. No welcome mat, not even a peep hole or a sign or fancy numbering. Just the standard-issue plaque and the doorknob.

It occurred to her that Chase might not even be home.

Swallowing, Cameron reached out and knocked on the door sharply, quickly, only letting her knuckles rap against it twice. Then she waited.

Eventually, after an age of waiting, she saw the doorknob turn. The door swung in and Chase poked his head around it, surprise making his eyes widen as he saw Cameron.

"Hi," she said pathetically, offering him an embarrassed smile.

Chase looked at her appraisingly for a minute, and then he swung the door open the rest of the way. "Hey," he said tiredly. "House send you?"

Cameron nodded, looking Chase up and down. He really didn't look sick. He was in sweat pants and a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt, and she could tell that he hadn't shaved in the last twenty-four hours. He'd apparently been running his hand through his hair, or trying to pull it out of his scalp—either way, it was flopping about every which way possible. His shoulders were slumped and his head was sort of leaning to the side, like it was too much effort to hold it all the way upright.

"Yeah," she said slowly, realizing with a jolt that she had been staring at Chase for far too long. "He doesn't think you're sick."

Chase let out a bitter laugh. "No, he doesn't, does he?"

Cameron stared at him, wondering what _that_ was supposed to mean. Maybe she was supposed to ask him.

But Chase noticed and ran a hand through his hair, unwittingly answering her earlier question. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head as his hand came free. "Here—come in. I can't imagine you want to go back to the hospital. Foreman and House aren't much company."

"Okay," Cameron said hesitantly, and the word almost sounded like a question. But as Chase stepped back from the door, she walked in and shut the door behind her. "So you're playing hooky?"

Chase shrugged. "I guess. You can throw your coat anywhere, I don't care. You want something to drink?"

"Uh—no," Cameron said automatically, before she could even begin to consider if she _was_ actually thirsty. "No thanks."

Chase nodded slowly. "Okay." Then he made his way back to the couch, and Cameron noticed for the first time that there was some sort of video game paused on the television. She didn't know what it was, but Chase grabbed the controller and had the game shut down in a matter of seconds. Awkwardly, Cameron made her way around the couch and sat down next to him.

"Cameron..."

She looked over, suddenly wary of his hesitant tone.

Chase was looking at her, and with his wide eyes and messy hair, he looked like a child about to confess that he'd accidentally thrown a baseball through the window. "You know that..." He trailed off, looking at her and grimacing in frustration. "You know that I don't think you're working with Vogler, right?"

That had been about the last thing Cameron had expected to hear.

"W—what?" she stuttered, staring at him blankly. Her heart was jumping wildly around her ribcage.

Chase looked embarrassed. "I don't—I think that House is wrong. And I'm sorry, you know. House is being a real jackass."

Too stunned for words, Cameron's mouth opened and closed, her tongue moving to form silent, nonsensical words. A thousand things to say, a thousand feelings to deal with belted her in the stomach and stormed her mind, and something was roaring in her ears as she struggled to think. "Why didn't you say anything?" she finally asked.

"I don't know," Chase said, looking abruptly miserable and tired. He shook his head, looking lost. "I don't know."

Helplessly, Cameron felt tears sting her eyes. "You don't know?" she repeated, her voice cracking and her throat closing up. "How can you not know? You've sat there every day—_every day_ for nearly three weeks—and you just can't speak up? You can't just... He's been torturing me! And you just sit there like—like... And Foreman... and..." And that was the last thing that she could get out. She was sobbing.

Chase said something, but she didn't catch it. She felt him pat her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to regain some control over herself. Her makeup was going to be all messed up and she'd probably gotten smudges all over her shirt—she'd worn a white, long-sleeved shirt this morning—and House would notice. "I'm sorry. It's just—I'm sorry--I don't know anymore..."

"You should talk to Cuddy," Chase said seriously.

Cameron shook her head, her breathing finally slowing down to shuddering, deep breaths that made her head spin and her chest ache. "He hasn't done anything bad enough," she said, the sound of her tearful voice almost enough to make her start all over again.

Chase made a noise that couldn't quite be called a snort or a laugh, but some strange mix of the two. "Cameron, he made you—"

"I know," Cameron said, bringing a hand up to her face to wipe her eyes. "It doesn't matter, anyways. He laid off when I told him that I was working for Vogler."

"It _does_ matter," Chase said, and Cameron stared at him in surprise. She'd never heard him sound so impassioned. "He's torturing you, and he's in the wrong. You don't deserve this, Cameron. You should talk to Cuddy—fight _back_."

Cameron smiled slightly. "You're so determined to make things right."

Chase opened his mouth and drew in a breath, and then he stopped, lips parted and a sentence ready. He studied Cameron for a second. "It's wrong," he said. "And you're innocent."

There was a second of hesitation, and then he leaned forward and kissed her.

For a second, Cameron was positively stunned that Chase was kissing her. She'd always thought that he was gay. But a second later, it hit her that he was kissing her, and he was _good_. She grabbed at him, feeling like a someone had finally thrown her a lifeline in a drowning storm. She felt his passion, his desperation, his fury and energy all in a second, and she was suffocating and in ecstasy at the same time.

Something in her was screaming, but she didn't care. She was so tired of caring. All she wanted to do now was keep this up, never lose this wonderful, awesome feeling of happiness and total oblivion to the rest of the world. She wanted more, because she couldn't even breathe and that wasn't enough and she didn't mind that it was Chase, that this was a coworker and this would only make things more complicated and painful in the long run. All she knew was that she wanted Chase to fuck her through the mattress—the couch, the floor, wherever they were right now—and then she wanted to do it again and again and again.

Her fingers worked at fabric, worked at buttons that were getting in the way. Around her, she felt pressing hands and brushing fingertips, gentle and caring, and then Chase was touching her stomach and she shivered.

"Condom," she breathed in between a kiss, and Chase muttered something nonsensical before pulling up on her shirt and then going down to her pants.

She quickly realized that he was _only_ in sweats and a t-shirt, and her clothes were suddenly too tight. The shirt was off in a few seconds, and her pants were about to follow when she suddenly realized that Chase was still fully dressed and that was hardly fair. With a yank, his shirt was off and she forgot about her pants for a second. There was more kissing, more ecstasy as she clung to him, desperate for more.

"Dammit, condom," she said again, those being the only two words that were coming to mind. "Condom."

Chase suddenly stopped, jerking away from her. "What?" he said, looking horrified.

"Uh... Condom?" Cameron repeated. The magic had fallen away in almost seconds. She felt naked and exposed as she sat on the couch, waiting for Chase to say something, and she shifted nervously.

"I—fuck, I can't," Chase said, now sounding absolutely appalled and terrified at the same time. "No. Jesus. Cameron, you should get out of here."

And then he stood up and was gone, leaving Cameron alone on the couch. A second later, water was running. She reached for her shirt with shaking fingers.

oOo

Foreman was off with his speeding ticket and Cameron had still not reported back from Chase's place, and that was the only reason that House was getting away with not working on his current case for the moment. Cuddy had gotten a hold of him not ten minutes after Foreman's departure and shoved the file into his hands, and he'd sworn that he would start working on it as soon as his team came back. She'd rolled her eyes, but agreed that he could wait until he had at least one of his ducklings back.

So House was sitting in his office, checking his email. Cameron thankfully hadn't gotten into his emails from Brenda this morning, but just in case, he changed his password to his email. It would mean that he'd actually have to sort through his inbox on occasion, but these updates from Brenda were well worth the trouble.

Thus far, he'd learned all sorts of interesting things about Vogler, even while he was away in Trenton. He knew all about his brother, that Mrs. Goldstein secretly thought that he was dating her daughter Marietta, that he preferred jelly over butter on his toast... Just the sort of information that he liked. The information on Cameron had been almost nonexistent, but that was his own doing and he wasn't worried about it. The best part of it all was that his month of no-upfront-parking was finally coming to an end.

The phone rang.

House reached over, paused with his hand over the receiver and read the caller ID, and then he snatched it up. "Princeton-Plainsboro Morgue—we kill 'em and chill 'em!"

"House, I'm going home."

House frowned. "Why?" he asked.

"I—I can't explain. I don't feel well. I'll be in tomorrow." And then Cameron hung up.

Staring at the phone, the gears began to whirl in House's mind.

oOo

Someone pounded on the door.

Chase, who was just pulling his t-shirt over his head, quickly began composing a mental list of the people that would knock on his door. It wouldn't be solicitors, as most people were usually working during this time of day. And that left a much smaller, more undesirable list of people. He really hoped that Cameron hadn't returned for round two.

He shuddered, and took the flare of pain from his chest as a sort of self-punishment. He didn't even want to think about that right now.

Making his way to the door, Chase shook out his wet hair and hoped that it wasn't anyone important. Five more minutes, and he would have been able to towel-dry it to some decency. But as he swung the door open, he quickly realized that the last thing he had to worry about was his hair.

"Gee, you look terrible," House said dryly, looking Chase up and down with piercing blue eyes.

Chase felt like he was being x-rayed. "What are you doing here?"

"Came by to drop off some chicken noodle soup and saltines," House said, holding up his hands as if either one of them was actually carrying one of the mentioned items.

Chase put a hand on the door. "Go away," he said, glaring.

But House only shook his head and took a step forward. "Nope."

Chase scurried backwards to avoid being trampled as House shoved his way into the apartment. He stood against the back of the couch meekly as House shut the door, took off his shoes and then began to shrug off his coat, which was dusted with a light layer of snowflakes.

"You can throw it anywhere," Chase said. He felt slightly strange as he realized that not a half an hour ago, he'd told Cameron the same thing. The difference was that House would have thrown his coat anywhere even if Chase hadn't said that he could.

House stepped closer to Chase—closer and closer until Chase found himself pressing against the back of the couch and utterly powerless to move or tear his eyes away from House's. He wondered what House was going to do, having him trapped. Their faces were inches away, and he could count the rays of darker blue that spiked House's irises and stood out in contrast the cerulean blue around them. His heart skipped a beat.

But then House merely slung his coat over the couch and stepped back, giving Chase room to breathe.

"I sent Cameron over here to check on you," House said. He glanced around the apartment, and Chase was about to ask him what he was looking for, when House began limping towards the kitchen. "And then she called me up about twenty minutes ago and told me that she was going home."

"She came over," Chase said automatically, and then he mentally kicked himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

"Really?" House opened his fridge and peered inside. "Did anything interesting happen?"

"No." He was lying, of course. But he hoped and prayed with every fiber of his being that House believed him. He'd gotten pretty good at lying to House lately.

House pulled out a container of orange juice and set it on the counter. "Mm. Then why would she say that she was sick?"

"Maybe I'm contagious," Chase suggested.

House, who had been opening and closing cabinets in search of glasses, stopped and turned to give Chase a withering look. "Right."

Chase shrugged. "How should I know? Women are impossible."

"How _would_ you know?" House said thoughtfully. He finally found a cup and set down on the counter. "I mean, what with you being gay and all, the minds of women must be even more of a mystery than they are to us straight—"

"I am not gay!" Chase protested, before he could even think about it.

House stared at him with raised eyebrows. Words weren't necessary.

Chase tried desperately not to cringe. He would never learn to keep his mouth shut, would he? "I'm not," he said quickly, working to recover from his slip. "I'm, you know, half and half. Bisexual. Whatever they call it."

House smirked. "Liar." He poured himself a glass of orange juice.

"Why are you here?" Chase asked, resisting the urge to get out a glass for himself. He wasn't even thirsty.

"Do I need a reason to see my favorite fuckbuddy?" House asked.

Chase frowned. "Do you really have to call me that?"

"What do you want me to call you?" House took a sip of the orange juice, staring at Chase over the rim of the cup. "My _boyfriend?_"

Trying not flush, Chase shook his head. "I don't know. Never mind. You said that Cameron called off?"

"Yeah. Suspiciously, after talking to you," House said. He eyed Chase. "Did you make her cry or something?"

Chase opened his mouth and the word yes nearly spilled out.

But it would have been all over. House would have suspected something, and then he would have attacked and beat him six ways to Sunday until he had it dragged out. His secret would be out. Although, strangely enough, some part of Chase wanted House to know the truth. He wanted to tell him that yes, he'd kissed Cameron, that he was working with Vogler and had been lying to House for the last four weeks, to tell him that he was sorry for it all. He needed to tell House the truth. He owed it to him.

Again, he resolved to say yes. The word laid on his tongue, heavy and thick, and he tried to spit it out.

Nothing happened.

He had to say yes. He had to. This spinning world of lies that he'd created for himself would collapse and he'd stop feeling sick to his stomach every time he saw Cameron. House would have a solution, because he always had the solution no matter how hard the problem. He'd have some clever, obvious plan that Chase should have thought of himself, and things would work out. Things would be right again.

All it would take was one word, a single syllable fallen from his lips, and it would all be over. Everything. All he had to do was say it.

He opened his mouth again.

But.. no. Not really.

Even as he thought about it, he knew that it was impossible. House would never help someone who'd hurt him so deeply, who'd betrayed his trust so profoundly. And Chase couldn't do that to House, he couldn't tell him the truth. Not for his own selfish reasons. He had gotten himself into this mess, and he would get himself out of it without House's help.

"Uh... Chase?" House suddenly said.

Chase looked up, coming out of his thoughts. "Sorry," he said, and it was only a force of will that kept him from stammering. He felt like he was seeing everything in a new light, experiencing everything for the first time, the world both brighter and more desolate at the same time. "I was just thinking. Is Foreman alone at the hospital, then?"

House snorted. "No. He's got a speeding ticket."

"And he's probably complaining about how it's never the _white_ guys who get pulled over for going 37 in a 35," Chase said with a snort, and he could hear Foreman saying it even as he spoke.

House stared at him, his expression unfamiliar.

"What?" Chase asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Had he crossed some line that House had drawn? What if House had a thing about racism? What if he'd just—

"Now why can't you say stuff like that more often?" House said finally, and Chase realized that he was on the receiving end of impressed eyes. It wasn't an expression that he was very familiar with, when it came to House. "More specifically, to his face."

Chase grinned and shook his head. "I couldn't do that. Office politics are bad enough."

"You call _this_ office politics?" House asked. He drained the last of his orange juice in one go, and then set the glass down on the counter with another loud bang. "Psht. You still have much to learn, grasshopper. Wait until you get a job with a boss who actually _participates_ in politics."

He didn't miss the subtext. Obviously, House was still planning on him leaving in two years.

"Do we have a patient?" Chase asked, walking over and putting House's glass in the sink. He grabbed the container of orange juice—which House, of course, hadn't put away—and stuck it back in the refrigerator.

"Yeah," House said, watching Chase as he moved about. "What's it to you? You called off sick."

Keeping his face impassive, Chase turned to House and spoke carefully. "Call off work," he said. "You didn't get the chance to make me coffee this morning. I want to make it up to you."

For the first time, House looked devilishly excited. "Why, Chase, you naughty boy. What fun toys do you have stuffed in _your_ closet?"

"_Skin Two_ issues, a gimp mask and a pair of jackboots," Chase said without missing a beat.

House's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

"No," Chase snorted, ignoring the slight flare of pain from his ribcage. "But I can kick your ass on Halo."

"Halo?" House repeated dubiously.

Chase was slightly stunned that House hadn't heard of it "It's a video game," he said hesitantly, wondering if House was messing with him. "I thought—"

"You want to challenge me to a video game competition, and you pick _Halo?_" House interrupted. "Please. What was your back up choice: Mario?"

Actually, it had been Donkey Kong, but Chase decided not to say that. "What do you play, then?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest and daring House to come up with something more enticing. He probably still had the old Sega Dreamcast console.

House grinned. "Grand Theft Auto."

Chase rolled his eyes. Of course.

And House did end up calling off work. Chase wouldn't admit it to anyone who knew his prowess in video games, but House had crucified him so badly that in the end, Chase had to beg him to switch games. They ordered pizza, for the lack of anything resembling ingredients in House's refrigerator, and Chase listened with mild interest as Cuddy called and left messages on House's machine—not once, not twice, but three times. He felt a little guilty playing hooky when they had a patient, but with House laughing and jeering at the answering machine, he couldn't help grinning. And when morning came, it was him who ended up making the coffee, and he didn't care.

It was all part of being in love.


	15. Not Everything's Lost

**Untouchable  
Chapter 15  
**_(Not Everything's Lost)_

_Dr. House—as you already know, a month has almost passed since we made our deal. In a few days, I will give you back your parking pass and will continue to give you information until you no longer need me to do so. However, I have learned something that would very much be in your interest to know. Extend my rights to your parking pass for another month, and I will tell you what it is. It relates to neither Edward Vogler nor Allison Cameron, and is therefore exempt from our initial bargain. _

_Brenda Previn_

oOo

Chase had nearly forgotten about Cameron until he caught sight of her the following morning. Judging by the look on her face, even if he hadn't wanted to talk to her about yesterday, he would have to anyway. She grabbed him before he could even get into the conference room and pulled him aside. House, who had been walking a few feet behind Chase so that it wouldn't be painfully obvious that they had come in together, gave him a funny look before disappearing into his office.

"Uh, hi," he said, giving Cameron a weak smile. He reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the urge to sigh. He didn't, but only because his chest was aching somewhat viciously after last night.

Cameron appeared to be wrestling with several different emotions—anger not the least of them. Finally, she gave up and let out a huff of frustration. "Whatever happened yesterday..."

"I'm sorry," Chase said immediately nerves making him jump a response instead of letting her think. "I'm not sure what I was thinking when I—"

"I can't give you a relationship, Chase," Cameron said firmly, cutting him across. "I'm sorry. I don't—I don't like you like that."

"That's..." Chase fumbled for words, the relief that swamped him making his mind slow and stupid as it processed the fact that he wouldn't have to deal with a clingy—or worse, vengeful—Cameron in the next few days. "That's... great. Really."

Cameron looked puzzled. "Great?"

"It's just that, I don't want to—I can't—I mean, I like you and everything. As a coworker. Just not as a wom... a girlfriend or anything. I'm not looking for a girlfriend." Chase was babbling slightly. "Not that I wouldn't want you for a girlfriend, because you're perfectly likable and pretty and everything, but I just—I—"

If anything, Cameron only looked more confused. "All right," she said, probably more to shut him up than because she actually understood.

"I'm seeing someone else," Chase finally said. The words were so easy to say that he barely connected it to the fact that he'd just put a label, an official term to whatever he and House were doing.

"Oh," Cameron said. She looked relieved.

Chase nodded, ignoring the twinges of pain. "Yeah..."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Okay," Cameron said, smiling. "So, am I going to meet her at the Valentine's Day benefit?"

He stared at her. "The what?"

oOo

"Morning," Wilson said as he pushed open the door to House's office.

House looked up from his desk chair. "Go get me coffee," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the conference room, where the coffee pot was located. "Black."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but left House's office and made his way over to the coffee pot. The whiteboard was blank and no one from House's team had arrived yet. But someone must have made the coffee—he knew for a fact that making the morning pot of coffee was one of the requirements of being employed by House. It had to be made before he arrived and it still had to be fresh when he walked through the door. House didn't have the patience to set it up and wait twenty minutes for the water to run through the grounds.

He suddenly caught sight of Cameron and Chase talking outside in the hallway. One of them must have made it.

He poured House his cup of coffee and then sauntered back into his friend's office.

"Black," he said as he entered. He set the red cup on House's desk.

House eyed it, but didn't take it. Instead, he looked down at the chessboard before him and moved another piece. He appeared to be concentrating on the board intently, his eyes darting around at all of the pieces.

"Who's winning?" Wilson asked. "You, or you?"

House looked up and glared. "Me."

Wilson looked at the board for a minute. "Right," he said. "So you would be the little pink bishop holding the king in check?"

"No," House said sulkily. "I'm the one in check. Not for long, though. Idiot forgot that I had my rook over there, so I'm gonna get his bishop."

"Right," Wilson said. He really shouldn't have been so disturbed by the fact that House was not only playing chess with himself, but he also seemed to be referring to his opponent in third person. It wasn't the strangest thing he'd heard out of House's mouth. However, he did seemed adamantly convinced that he playing with an actual other person. But Wilson didn't know who he could have been playing with, other than that strange night janitor that House got along with.

House, finished with the board, pushed it away from him and glanced to the cup of coffee. Then he turned in his chair and switched on his computer.

"You aren't going to drink that?" Wilson asked, indicating the untouched coffee cup. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cameron and Chase coming into the conference room.

"Later," House said, his attention now on the still-dark computer screen.

Wilson stared at him incredulously for a few seconds, and then he grabbed the cup of coffee for his own. He took a sip, swallowing the bitter liquid. "I want your journals out of my office."

House ignored him.

"Today," Wilson continued. "Or I'll have the janitors throw them in the dumpster."

That got his attention.

"That would be a waste of knowledge!" House said, sounding absurdly horrified at the idea. He turned away from the computer to look at Wilson in mock terror. "All those articles! That's like, burning the library of Alexandria all over again!"

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "That would be tragic. Which is why you have until the end of the day to get them out."

"I'll have Cameron get on it," House said, going back to his computer.

"Yeah—about that," Wilson said, remembering with a frown. "I heard that you've been nothing but a bastard to her. She hasn't seen a patient in nearly three weeks."

"Not true. I let her run an MRI on... two Wednesdays ago." House's computer was at last booted up, and he clicked on one of his desktop icons. "You missed it—last week, she broke down crying and begging, admitting that she was working for Vogler and that she was so very sorry for it..."

Staring at him for several moments in surprise, Wilson finally spoke up. "You're an ass. You'd... You made her cry?"

House shrugged. "So what?" He was in his inbox, clicking on emails. "Vogler isn't here to send out the troops."

"Are you checking your mail?" Wilson asked incredulously, deciding to drop the subject of Cameron.

"Can't trust Cameron not to squeal on me about my underground meth lab business, and Chase and Foreman won't do it." House continued to delete new emails, until he finally got to one that he liked and spent a few seconds reading it. "Oh, not fair..." he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Wilson asked, leaning forward to read the email.

House clicked out of the screen so fast that Wilson barely had time to glance at the sender's name. He frowned at House's desktop where the name had just been seconds ago. "Nurse Brenda? What's she emailing you for?"

"Nothing," House said. "Gimmie your parking pass."

Wilson was instantly suspicious. "Why?"

"Because I'm crippled and you're not, that's why," House said, clearly agitated. "C'mon, give it to me!"

"No," Wilson said stubbornly.

House glared. "Wilson. If you don't give me your parking pass, I'm going to steal Cameron's."

That made Wilson stop for a second. House definitely had the power to make Cameron surrender her parking pass—whatever his crazy reasoning behind it was—and she'd apparently been through a lot in the last two or three weeks... But on the other hand, he liked his parking spot. He liked it a lot. And he didn't trust House at all with his pass.

Feeling slightly guilty as he did so, Wilson shook his head. "No. You'll have to—" But he stopped as he heard the door open.

"Morning, boys," Cuddy said, walking into House's office with a smile.

"Morning, girls," House replied, surveying Cuddy's outfit and the rather generous view that it lent.

"Oh, grow up," Cuddy said, but she was rolling her eyes instead of scowling.

"Someone had fun last night," House said, leaning back in his chair.

Cuddy's smile became indulgent. "Someone wishes they had fun last night," she returned, stopping next to Wilson and glancing down at the chessboard on House's desk.

Wilson watched as House smirked. "I had lots of fun last night," he said. "And then twice again this morning. If you've got a few minutes, I can go for the record and make it three!"

"I highly doubt that three is your record," Cuddy put in dryly.

House's eyes narrowed suddenly. "What are you doing here? You never visit me without either a very good reason or a very bad reason. I guess bad."

Cuddy's smile came back. "If you really want to know, I came to inform you that _you_—" Cuddy pointed to House with a finger. "—have two extra hours of clinic duty a week for the next two weeks."

"Why?" House sat up in his chair, clearly disturbed by this news.

"We're cutting some of the clinic's permanent staff during its transition from free to discounted. To compensate, we decided to up the number of hours contributed by department heads, until there's enough money to begin the change." Cuddy sounded entirely too happy about this.

"When's that gonna be?" House demanded.

"The hospital is holding a Valentine's Day benefit. Which," she added with a glare, "you _will_ come to, even if I have to be your date."

House seemed to think this over, and Wilson was surprised that his first instinct hadn't been to make some lurid comment about being Cuddy's date and what, exactly, it would entail when the benefit was over. But House eventually just scrunched up his face. "Ew. Like I'd want _you _to be my date. I've already got a date."

"Wilson doesn't count," Cuddy said flatly.

House rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Go away."

"Two extra hours," Cuddy said sternly, and then she left.

"Do you think she was serious?" House asked as they watched Cuddy retreat down the hallway.

Wilson shrugged. "I would have taken her up on it."

"We could have shared," House said. "One for each one of her—"

"House!" Wilson said, alarmed.

House looked at him innocently. "Each of her _arms_," he finished. "Perve. What did you think I was going to say?"

oOo

"No coffee this morning?" Cameron asked him after a few minutes of sitting in silence.

Chase shook his head. "Had some before I came in—I'm good."

It was quiet again as Cameron seemed to turn this over in her mind. Chase had finished his last crossword puzzle book two days ago and he'd meant to bring in a new one today, but hadn't remembered to grab it from his apartment before leaving for House's place. He entertained the idea of reading yesterday's newspaper, but declined after thinking about it. He'd been here in the States for over a year and he still didn't care about the happenings of Princeton. Besides, he'd glanced at the headline. It was still raging over George W. Bush's triumph over John Kerry, and that was old news.

House and Wilson were talking but he couldn't hear what they were saying through the glass—not that he would have listened to their conversation if he could, but he was still curious. They had been talking about the chessboard for a few minutes, he'd thought. Then Cuddy had come in and House had gotten a nettled look on his face while Cuddy smiled, which never meant anything good for him, Cameron and Foreman. But now House and Wilson were talking—bantering, from the looks of it—and Chase dared to hope that House had relaxed and temporarily forgotten about whatever Cuddy had said.

He glanced over to Cameron, who smiled at him and took another sip of her coffee. He was surprised by how she had... rebounded, really, from yesterday. He'd expected her to be pissed. And while he was happy that she wasn't, it was still somewhat disconcerting to see her smiling at him a day after he'd nearly taken advantage of her.

The door opened and Foreman came in.

"Morning," Cameron said, watching him set his bag and a newspaper on the table, and then shrug off his coat.

"Morning," Foreman replied as he set his coat on the chair and rubbed his hands together.

Chase watched him rub his palms together, blow on them, and then rub again. "Cold, isn't it?"

Foreman rolled his eyes and stopped trying to warm up his palms. "You would think that this is cold. Just wait until it gets down into the negatives."

Indignant anger sparked in him, but Chase shoved it down and shook his head slightly, careful of his sensitive ribs. He didn't want to pick a fight so early in the morning.

"Good to see you're all feeling better," Foreman said as he poured his coffee. "I must have missed the office bug."

Cameron winced. "Sorry about that. What did House have you do?"

"Nothing," Foreman said with a snort. "He went home early, too."

"You stayed?" Chase asked in surprise. He would have just went home at that point.

With a shrug, Foreman sat down at the table. "Why not? I got caught up with paperwork, read a book and surfed the internet for five hours. I'll take free money."

"How late did you—" But Cameron was cut off.

"Cameron!" House barked, entering the conference room with Wilson in tow. He limped over to her and held out a hand. "Your parking pass."

Cameron looked horrified. "Are you firing me?"

"No, I'm not firing you," House said impatiently. "You're just going to trade me parking spots."

Now Cameron looked baffled. "Trade parking spots?" she said blankly.

Chase was also confused, but not in the same way. They'd come in today and parked in his spot instead of House's. He hadn't questioned why House would want to walk the extra hundred or so feet, but now that House was looking to trade parking spots with Cameron... Had Cuddy revoked House's handicapped spot right up in the front of the parking lot and sent him—but wait. House's parking spot was farther back. He'd asked him about it when House had first started giving him ride home. What was going on?

"Yes, trade parking spots," House said. He wiggled his fingers in a gimmie motion, still waiting for Cameron to hand it over.

"Well—well, I don't have it on me right now!" Cameron spluttered, staring up at House, still aghast.

House sighed and withdrew his hand. "I want it before I eat my lunch. In my hand."

Cameron looked relieved. Slowly, she nodded. "Can I ask why?" she ventured cautiously.

But House had stormed back into his office. Wilson winced, and then turned back to Cameron. "Sorry about that. You might want to stay busy this morning." Wilson seemed to be forgetting the fact that Cameron wouldn't be doing any work outside of the conference room for a long time, but no one said anything to him as he offered a half-smile before turning and leaving.

They looked at each other.

"Well, I'll be in the clinic if you need me," Foreman said, standing up with his cup of coffee and heading for the door, as if Wilson had been advising him and not Cameron.

Chase nodded and didn't say anything for a minute, watching Cameron, who was staring down at the table in silence. He wanted to say something, but nothing encouraging was coming to mind. He exhaled nervously and took a quick glance out into the hallway.

"It's weird, isn't it?" he said finally. "That, you know, House would trade his parking spot away. His is right up front."

Cameron looked up at him in vague surprise. "Yeah," she said after a second. She shrugged and stared back down at the table miserably.

He couldn't take it anymore and stood up. "I'll be back."

Jolted as if by some invisible cattle plod, Cameron started and looked up at him, shaking her head with horrified eyes. "Chase, no! No, sit down. It's fine. I'm fine. Really, whatever he's doing now, it can't be that bad. Talking to him isn't going to do any good."

"It's okay," he told her, feeling somewhat guilty that she thought he was going in to talk to House in her defense. He played along anyways. "Just come and get me if I'm not out in an hour."

As he turned around, he thought that he heard Cameron mutter, "He's such an idiot," but he couldn't be sure.

oOo

House heard Chase enter his office before he actually saw him. He glanced up just to make sure that it was Chase, and not someone less pleasing like Cuddy or Foreman. Thankfully, it was indeed Chase, and even better, he didn't look angry. So House went back to his red ball, throwing it from his left hand to his right, and then up in the air.

"You're an idiot," he remarked as Chase approached.

"You're an ass," Chase shot back, sitting down. "What did Cuddy do with your parking spot?"

House was so surprised that when he caught the ball in his hands, he forgot to throw it back up. Recovering quickly, he tossed it up in the air once more. "What makes you think that Cuddy had anything to do with it?"

"Your face just a second ago," Chase said with a slight smirk. "And the fact that you had me park in my spot this morning. If your parking spot was still up front, you would have parked there. Something happened, and my spot is closer than yours for the moment—two weeks ago, you were parking way back with the nurses. So logically, the only person who would ever revoke your parking spot..."

"Is Cuddy," House finished.

Chase looked triumphant for a moment.

"Unfortunately for you, Cuddy has nothing to do with it," House said, and Chase looked abruptly startled.

"So what's going on?" he asked, his expression slowly becoming wary. "It's not Vogler, is it? I thought he was in Trenton."

House considered telling Chase about his deal with Brenda, but quickly decided against it. It wasn't like Chase knew anything that would help him, and he'd probably just get angry about the fact that House had been keeping tabs on Cameron, so what was the point?

He threw the ball up into the air, tipping his head back as far as it would go to watch it sail through the air. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

Chase opened his mouth and glanced down to the chessboard, and then he shut it. He had apparently realized that it wasn't his move, and therefore couldn't demand to know why House wanted Cameron's parking spot.

House smirked and set the red ball down on the desk, reached out and pushed his rook sideways until it knocked over Chase's little pink bishop. "Rook to F6. Promise that you won't try to figure out what's going on with my parking spot."

"No!" Chase said immediately. "That's—you can't do that!"

"Why not?" House asked.

Chase floundered. "Because—because—you can't! I need to know!"

House raised his eyebrows.

"It's not fair," Chase said, crossing his arms over his chest and cringing for a minute, obviously in pain, and then he recovered and glared at House. "You can tell somebody something or you can ask them something. That's it."

"Right," House agreed. "And I'm _asking_ you to leave it alone. If you say no, then you're denying the question and you forfeit."

Chase's mouth opened and his face went blank as he tried desperately to find a loophole in it. House waited. Finally, he sighed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head—probably more to get the hair out of his eyes than from frustration. "Fine," he said resignedly. "I promise."

House smiled. "I knew you'd come around."

"Pawn to G5," Chase retorted suddenly, moving his pawn diagonally and swiping House's rook for his own. "Did you ask someone else to trade spots with you before you asked Cameron?"

"Idiot. You _just promised_ two seconds ago that you wouldn't try to find—"

"I'm not," Chase interrupted firmly, leveling House with a glare. "I just want to find out if you're doing this deliberately to hurt Cameron, or if there's something else involved. That's all."

House rolled his eyes. "I swear, you're sleeping with her behind my back."

"Did you ask someone else?" Chase asked again, undaunted.

"Yes," House said, a little annoyed. "I asked Wilson."

"You could have just asked me," Chase said. "I suspect we're going to be coming in together again sometime in the near future."

"Ah, but robbing Cameron of her parking spot brings me far more pleasure," House said, reaching for his ball. He began throwing it up in the air again.

Chase gave up and changed the subject. "There's a Valentines Day benefit coming up. I say we don't go."

House made a face. "No can do. Cuddy's making me. And what's with the 'we'? I thought _we _were keeping this whole thingamajig a secret?"

Chase shrugged, but he looked abruptly uncomfortable. Although that could have been from pain. "We don't have to. It's only the game that no one can know about. Anyway, I should probably go to make sure my options are open."

Blue eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Never mind. I'll just go with Cameron or something," Chase said, no longer looking House in the eye. "Don't worry about it."

House snorted. "I don't think so. Knight to C3, and tell me."

Chase watched as House moved his knight and used it to knock the other knight off of its square. The pink horse head went in the slowly growing pile of pieces on the corner of the desk.

"I just—my fellowship's up in two years, isn't it? These benefits are a good time to get to know people from other hospitals. You know, establish yourself. Not all of us are world-renowned diagnosticians."

That was what House had thought, but it didn't make it any more pleasant to hear. In two years... With his track record, with both of their track records, there was a high chance that they wouldn't even make it to St. Patrick's Day. But it made him uneasy to hear Chase say that he was still planning on leaving in two years. _He _was the one with commitment issues, not Chase. Talk about role reversal.

"Whatever," he said at last. "They suck"

Chase gave a one-shouldered shrug that could have been an concession a hesitant disagreement. "Cameron thinks I came in here to demand that you leave her alone, you know."

"Well, didn't you?"

Chase looked irritated. "No. I came in here to find you why you wanted to take her parking spot. Why we parked in mine this morning."

"What's with all the 'we' pronouns?" House said, diverting the subtle prodding. "You'd think we were a couple or something."

"What would you call us?" Chase asked. He looked genuinely curious.

House waved a hand. "Who needs labels? We're you and me. House and Chase."

Pensive silence followed.

oOo

Brenda smiled at him sweetly over the laminate counter of the nurse's station. "Good to see you, Dr. House."

House glowered. "Can't say the same."

"Do I get premium parking for another month?" Brenda asked, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning forward so that her forearms were leaning on the counter. Her smile reminded House of a tiger watching his prey look around wildly for an escape.

Stiffly, House nodded. "Get on with it. Better be good."

Brenda's smile widened so that her teeth showed. "Excellent. I'm sure you don't keep tabs on it, but for the last month, your file has been conspicuously absent from Human Resources. I don't know who took it, but they haven't returned it."

House stood there, staring at her as he processed the information and the reparations that could come from it. There were—his medical records were in there, going back to when he was four and had gotten the measles. Everything about his leg, Stacy, his rehab, the psych consults he'd endured over the years... If anyone with a grudge got a hold of that file... His leg was _private_, dammit. Not even his team knew what had happened. He didn't want anyone else to know about it. The thought of some stranger having full access to the story, piecing through the pictures and surgical reports and...

He jerked himself out of his thoughts, terror bubbling up into anger.

_Cuddy_.


	16. Fools Like Me

**Untouchable**  
**Chapter 16  
**_(Fools Like Me)_

"Where is it?" House demanded, barging in to Cuddy's office.

"Where's what?" Cuddy asked, looking up. She was about to make a witty remark when she noticed that House was not kidding around—he looked positively mutinous. "What's wrong?"

"My file," House said through clenched teeth. "My file is missing. HR hasn't had it in a month."

"Are you sure?" Cuddy asked, alarmed by this news. Her hand went to the phone.

House shot her a venomous look. "Of _course_ I'm sure."

"Well, I'm not the one who took it," Cuddy said, dialing the extension to Human Resources to try to find out what was going on. "Are you sure they didn't misfile it?"

"If they did," House said, "then they would have had to have taken it out in the first place. Somebody's looked at it."

Cuddy waved a hand for him to be quiet. "Rudy, this Lisa Cuddy. I have Dr. House here in my office saying that his file isn't in your records. Could you check on the status of his file for me? Thanks."

House glared at her as she waited for Rudy to meander back to the filing cabinets and search for the missing file. Thankfully he didn't take his time and was back on the phone in a matter of minutes.

"Okay," Cuddy said, nodding. "Do you remember anyone asking for it in the last month? Or the last time that you saw it?"

House looked triumphant.

"Thank you," Cuddy sighed. "Call me if you think of anything." She hung up and slowly brought her gaze up to House's, feeling hopeless for a moment. "I'm sorry. I don't know how this could have—"

"I do," House interrupted. "Vogler. He's got it. I'd bet my TiVo on it."

Cuddy frowned. "House, why would Vogler have it? And why wouldn't he have returned it immediately?"

"Well, who the hell keeps tabs on their file?" House asked. "He probably didn't expect anyone to even notice that it was gone."

"Well, he's not coming back until tonight, so I can—" Something occurred to Cuddy. "How did _you _know that it was missing?"

"I have sources," House said shortly. "More important—my file is not where it should be. My file has confidential information in it. If someone uses it, I am going to sue the hospital _into the ground. _Got it?"

"I'll do what I can, House, but it won't be much. If it was a month ago..." Cuddy trailed off, for the sentence spoke for itself. She shook her head. "And I can try to talk to Vogler and ask him if he had it removed, for whatever reason. I'm sorry."

House was still fuming. "Thanks for nothing."

Cuddy put her face in her hands as he left, feeling more tired than ever. Dammit.

oOo

If Wilson had a nickel for every time that House barged in on his office when he was with a patient, he'd... Well, he'd have a lot of nickels, at least. House did it three or four times a week, and if he was feeling particularly enthusiastic, twice in the same day. But since he'd returned from Ohio a few days ago, House had yet to interrupt him at all, which was extremely suspicious. Even more suspiciously, House hadn't mooched off of his lunch or commanded him to bring Thai, beer and gory movies over to his apartment since he'd been back. And at the top of the list was the fact that there had been no mention of refilling his Vicodin. Wilson had been sure that it would be the first thing out of House's mouth.

However, not two minutes after he'd begun his conference with Ms. Minchin, House barged in with such force that the poor woman nearly fell out of her chair in surprise.

"House!" Wilson snapped, annoyed with his entrance. He gave Ms. Minchin an apologetic look. "I'm sorry about this."

"I need a sounding board and a punching bag," House said, crossing the room in two strides. "Preferably in the same person. Get up, tell Fanny to come back later."

Wilson shot a look to his patient before staring at House again. "What happened? I didn't think that you had any patients."

"I _don't_," House said. "It's private, but not for long. Vogler, being the no good, thieving bastard of a—"

"House!" Wilson said loudly before he could get any dirtier. Poor Ms. Minchin looked scandalized. "Look, we can talk about it later. Go calm down and find me in an hour."

"It can't wait an hour," House said stubbornly.

"Is it life-threatening?" Wilson asked.

"_Yes_."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "No it isn't. Go harass your team—that always makes you feel better."

House opened his mouth to protest when an idea dawned on his face, and he shut it. He gave Wilson one last scowl and then departed, slamming the door on his way out. Wilson winced.

oOo

By the time Wilson got around to House, the situation had blown over. Which was not to say that House's file had been found and safely returned to its spot between Hourus and Hubbely, as it hadn't been. However, House _had _successfully stormed up to HR and bribed (and when that hadn't worked, threatened) the workers there until he was convinced that they were all clueless idiots. He then rampaged the hospital for answers until security had to direct him back to his office. So Wilson was kicked out before he got two feet on the carpeting, and House sulked in the darkness of his office.

Chase stopped by to ask House what had happened, but House had informed him that it was none of his business. When Chase hesitated at the door, House barked out orders for him to go do his clinic duty—he had six hours to do this week, and as far as he knew, he hadn't done the ones from last week, either. Learning from Chase's experience, Cameron and Foreman kept a wide berth around House for the rest of the day.

The only exception had been when House went and tracked Cameron down and demanded her parking pass. Other than that, though, the day passed uneventfully and rather quickly. Any bulletin board with room for another tack in it had a pink sheet of paper announcing the Valentine's Day benefit, although there was a rumor going around that someone had ripped down all the ones in Pathology. Extras were sent just in case. Someone had also started up a rumor that there would be a bachelor's auction to raise money, but it lost its credence when people began to whisper that Vogler himself was one of the bachelors.

Chase was on the computer looking up today's bus schedule when House finally waltzed in, carrying two cups of coffee. He set one before Chase without a glance at the monitor and proceeded to grab the deserted newspaper off the glass table. Wordless, he flipped through the pages and then crumpled it up and limped over to the garbage can. Chase went back to his bus schedule, grabbed a Post-It note and quickly scribbled down the times of the different buses.

"Evening," he said to break the silence.

"Yes, I noticed," House said dryly. "Where are the other two idiots?"

Chase looked at him in surprise. "They went home. It's nine o'clock at night."

"So why are you still here?" House asked him, taking a sip of his coffee.

"I was just—"

"Oh, that's right," House said, interrupting him with the wave of his hand. "Forgot I drove you."

Chase shrugged and looked down to the table. "I was actually just looking at the times for the—"

"Bus schedule," House said, and suddenly, he was leaning over Chase's shoulder. His hand covered Chase's, which was still on the mouse, and guided the cursor up to the top of the screen. He clicked (or rather, pressed his finger down on Chase's, which clicked) the X on the menu, and the window was gone. "What is it with you and those buses? Do you actually _like_ them?"

Chase shook his head, sliding his hand out from beneath House's. "No, I don't. It's just that—"

"So don't ride them," House said matter-of-factly.

"Are you _ever _going to let me finish a sentence?" Chase asked.

"No. Now get your coat," House said. He jerked his head in the direction of the coat rack.

"Really, you don't have to give me a ride," Chase mumbled, even as he stood up obligingly.

House grinned wickedly. "Oh, but I _want_ to."

Chase sighed. "That's not what I meant. Are you sure that you don't mind driving me all the way over to my place?"

"I do mind," House said.

"But then why—"

"I'm not taking you to your place. You're spending the night again," House said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I—I can't," Chase said, the logistics coming to mind before his emotions. "I don't have anything to wear to work tomorrow."

House waved an impatient hand, dumping his coffee in the garbage. "Wilson leaves clothes over my place all the time. Borrow some of his. He won't even notice."

"Wilson's clothes won't fit me right," Chase said, mentally sizing Wilson up. "He's bigger than I am."

"You're telling me that you, of all people, are concerned about how your clothing looks?" House asked, raising his eyebrows. He looked ready to laugh.

"Of course I care about how my clothing looks!" Chase protested, reaching for his coat. "People would be more concerned if _you _started getting picky about how your clothing looked."

House gave him an Are-You-Serious kind of look. "Chase. You're wearing a green sweater-vest, an orange tie and blue slacks."

"What's wrong with that?" Chase asked as he shrugged on his coat and then brushed away the hair that had fallen in his face. He glanced down at his clothes and didn't see anything wrong with them.

"For starters, the fact that you're even asking that question," House said. He cast his eyes heavenward and shook his head in apparent despair. "Never mind. You're hopeless. And I'm sure that Wilson's clothes will show off your svelte figure just fine."

Chase opened his mouth, but then shut it as he realized that it was a lost cause. He grabbed his coffee off of the desk before he forgot about it.

House realized his victory with a grin. "All right, let's get a move on. Hope you've got money."

"Why?" Chase asked cautiously, stopping before he took another step towards the door.

"Because you're paying. It's tradition," House said. He gestured for Chase to keep moving with his hand.

"This is only the second time we've had takeout," Chase reminded him, and he grudgingly followed House out the door.

"Semantics. We're starting a tradition." House was limping through the hallways at a pace that made Chase rush to keep up.

Chase resigned himself to forking over bills whenever they had dinner and dropped the subject. "So what're we having?"

"Chinese," House said. He glanced over his shoulder, where Chase was lagging behind by several feet. "Are you coming or not?"

oOo

"Can I ask why you were holed up in your office all day?" Chase glanced over to House as they drove along. The bag of Chinese was sitting on his lap, the Styrofoam containers squeaking as they rubbed against each other. The heat radiating from it, along with the smell, was incredible.

"No," House said after a moment's thought.

Chase said nothing, deciding not to push his luck for the night.

"Wanna be my date for the Valentine's Day benefit?" House asked.

"Are you only asking because it's my move and you can't _make_ me do it?" Chase asked, shifting in his seat. It had been nearly three weeks since the crash, but he still felt twinges of pain whenever he moved. His messenger bag bounced between his legs, sitting on the floor of the car.

"No," House said. He sounded genuine—but with House, that was reason enough to think he was being facetious.

"If you buy my ticket," Chase said. They were coming up to House's apartment now, the streetlights illuminating the empty curbs.

"That means when we dance, you have to be the girl," House said. He eased the car into a spot, parallel parking in only three moves, and then killed the engine.

"You can't dance," Chase said pointedly.

House scowled. "You're over-thinking it, Robbie." Then he wrinkled his nose. "Ew. You don't even look like a Robbie."

"Yeah, and you don't look like a Greg, but I'm sure somebody's called you that at one point or another," Chase said. He grabbed the food and his bag, clambered out of the car and straightened. Winds were howling, carrying little bullets of snowflakes that stung his cheeks.

"Had a girlfriend who called me Greg," House said. The car was locked with the push of a button on House's keyring, and then he began making his way to the stoop outside his apartment.

"What'd you call her?" Chase asked as he went after him, a few steps behind. "Did she get the honor of a first name?"

But House didn't answer his question. He fiddled with his keys, wedging them into the lock and wrenching the door open. A gust of warm air came rushing out at them, and thankfully, House didn't stall as he headed inside. Chase pushed the door shut behind him, taking a split second to relish the warmth and silence, and then pushed his shoes off and padded over to the couch.

"I don't think we'll have to microwave it," he called to House, who had breezed past the rest of the apartment in a beeline for the bathroom.

He heard House's muffled response to just set it up on the coffee table, then.

Chase glanced at the remote, but didn't both with it. It wouldn't matter what he put on—House would change the channel just to be contrary. So he started taking out the boxes of food from their bag, setting them up neatly on the little table instead. He had to peek inside each one to make sure that he was dividing it up right, but by the time the toilet flushed and House was standing next to him, it was all sorted out.

House flopped down on the couch with a heavy sigh, although it might have been more content than tired, and he reached for the box nearest him.

Chase mentally cringed, glancing at his messenger bag. He'd been hoping that House would stay in the bathroom long enough for him to get it over with. Maybe he could pass it off as pain meds—although House was certainly going to inspect the bottle. Maybe he could sneak into the bathroom... But no. It would be obvious that he was hiding something, then, because he'd have to root around his messenger bag for a few minutes just to find the damn—

"If you aren't going to eat that, give it to me," House said, interrupting his thoughts.

Preparing himself for the interrogation, Chase leaned over and snagged his messenger bag. He sifted through files and loose papers and his laptop—and there it was, at the bottom, with broken pen and some potato chip crumbs. He grabbed the white bottle and popped open the cap.

"Gimmie," House said, holding out a hand.

Chase dumped out two into the palm of his hand and then handed the bottle over to House. There was no point in trying to hide it now. Resistance was futile.

"Vitamin B6," House read aloud, spinning the bottle around in his fingers as he read the details. "How dull. Blood sugar in the doghouse?"

"No," Chase said. He downed the two pills dry, and the grabbed the beer (when had House brought those over?) in front of him and opened it. After taking a long drink to wash down the vitamins, he lowered it and gave House a sheepish grin. "Chinese Restaurant Syndrome."

House threw the bottle of pills back at him. "That's not even a real allergy, you idiot."

After putting the pills back in his bag, Chase picked up his container of sesame noodle and tore off the tiny rubber bands that bound the chopsticks together. "I knew you were going to say that. Anyway, I'd rather take the pills than have to go all night feeling like I'm dying."

"It's all in your head," House told him. "They've been doing studies since the _fifties _and they haven't found anything."

Chase shook his head, swallowing before he spoke. "The sixties, actually. They think it's related to MSG allergens."

"You eat from the hospital cafeteria. You're not allergic to MSG," House said, as if he were speaking to a particularly thick patient. "Next time we have Chinese, you're not taking those stupid pills."

"What, so I can be your lab rat?" Chase asked, not entirely pleased with the idea of spending a night with Chinese food in his system without the vitamin B6 to counteract it, much less just to prove House wrong. "I don't think so."

"It would be fun," House said, and there was a determined set in his jaw that told Chase he wasn't going to get out of this one without a fight. "And safe. I'm a doctor, you know. And this way, when nothing happens, you save money without those stupid pills! See how that works out for everyone?"

Chase considered the words that came out of his mouth next before he said them. "If you tell me why you were sulking in your office all day long, I'll do it."

"Excellent!" House said happily. "We can do it tomorrow."

"I'm looking forward to it." Chase took a last bite of his noodles and then went for the egg roll. "So why were you in such a bad mood?"

"Because I was mad," House said. And then he drained his beer, as if the answer was satisfactory.

"Why were you mad?" Chase pressed, hoping that he wouldn't be pushing a volatile button.

House scowled at him. "That wasn't in the deal. I was sulking because I was mad. End of story."

"Pawn to C3—taking your knight. Why were you mad?" Chase asked, curiosity beating his caution and good sense into silence.

There was silence, and a long, dirty look from House. Pointedly ignoring him, Chase reached for his beer. Finally, drawing in a long breath beforehand, House apparently decided that losing the game over a small question wasn't worth it. "Someone has my file," he said shortly.

Chase choked.

He succeeded in not spraying beer all over his lap, but it was a close call. After several minutes of hacking as he fought to breathe, he finally got himself under control and looked over to House with watering eyes. "Your file?" he repeated, his voice rasping.

"My file," House confirmed, watching Chase carefully. "The one that's supposed to be in HR. What's got your knickers in a twist?"

Chase thought fast, suppressing the urge to glance down to his messenger bag. He coughed again, and turned the tail end of it into a laugh. "It's—it's just odd. Funny. You _always _steal people's files and get all their juicy details. You've probably even gotten mine. And now that someone has yours, it's the end of the world."

"Irrelevant. And I only grab them for a few hours, not a month. It's good business," House said, buying Chase's story.

"It's been gone for a month?" Chase asked, most of the surprise genuine. Jesus, it had been that long, hadn't it?

"Yeah. Bet you anything Vogler's got it in his grubby hands," House said resentfully, leaning back into the couch.

_I might beg to differ_, Chase was tempted to say, but he couldn't. Instead, he reached for his fortune cookie and prayed like hell that House would never look inside of his messenger bag.

oOo

_"Trust me," Vogler said, shoving a file into Chase's hands. "You'll find way. You don't have a choice anymore." He left Chase standing in the bathroom, alone._

oOo

Their meeting ended a little after eleven, and Cuddy felt like she could feel the room tipping sideways as she stood up. Her head ached and her body felt sleepy and stupid, but she blinked and forced herself to focus. She would be home soon, but first, she had a few more things to take care of. Glancing around the room she spotted Vogler talking to Nguyen in a low voice. Cuddy waited, absently tracing a pattern on the table as she waited for the two to finish talking. Wilson waved to her as he left, and she gave him a nod that he had turned away too fast to see.

Finally, after an age that was probably, in fact, about two minutes, Nguyen shook Vogler's hand and joined the procession out the door. Cuddy strode over to Vogler, summoning the last shreds of her business skills that remained at the end of the day.

"Edward," she said, giving him a smile. "Welcome back. I hope your brother's doing well."

"Good evening, Dr. Cuddy," Vogler said with a broad smile. "The doctors have assured me that he'll recover just fine. He works too hard."

"Don't we all?" Cuddy sighed. Then she quickly veered back on topic. "Good meeting tonight."

"I'd like to think that I'm finally getting the hang of hospital business," Vogler said, nodding in agreement.

"I think your idea for the Valentine's Day benefit was exactly what we needed," Cuddy said, knowing that he was smelling the scent of flattery even as the words came out of her mouth. "I'm very excited about it."

Vogler nodded thoughtfully, his smile losing some of its shine. "Yes, well, I'm sure that you didn't wait to talk to me simply to compliment me. Is there something that I can do for you?"

"I've recently become aware that one of my employee's files has been missing," Cuddy said delicately. "I was wondering if you knew anything about the matter."

"Ah... That would be Dr. House, wouldn't it?" Vogler said with a knowing look.

Cuddy wasn't sure why she was so surprised that House had been right. "Do you know where it is?"

"It's safe, Dr. Cuddy," Vogler said. "That's all you need to know."

"I'm sorry?" Cuddy said with as much politeness masking her shock as she could manage.

"Perhaps you still have some illusions about your place in this hospital," Vogler suggested calmly. "Let me educate you. In this hospital, you will make medical decisions. I will make business decisions. As long as I don't question your medical judgment, you don't question my business affairs. Yes, I have the file of Dr. House and I will do with it what I please. Is that clear?"

Cuddy was, for a moment, speechless. She longed to open her mouth and spew out the nastiest retorts that would come, but even as the idea crossed her mind, she knew that she couldn't. If she wanted to put an end to this, she'd have to be more underhanded than a brassy verbal battle. So she slowly nodded, the words still echoing through her mind. "Yes," she said quietly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"I hope that future conversations won't be like this," Vogler said, like a parent finishing with a lecture. "You're a great Dean of Medicine. Good evening."

And then he was gone, leaving Cuddy to stare after him and wonder when, exactly, she'd missed the regime change.


	17. Contact

**Untouchable**  
**Chapter 17  
**_(Contact)_

They parked in Cameron's spot that morning.

"Why'd you trade her?" Chase asked as House pulled into the spot.

"You saw my old parking spot," House said. "This one's much better."

"Why was your old parking spot so far away?" Chase persisted. "I remember yours being the handicapped, upfront parking spot. With your name on it and everything. Did Cuddy kick you out?"

House snorted. "No. Didn't we just have this conversation yesterday?"

"You're lying," Chase said, scrutinizing him. "Cuddy _has _got something to do with it."

"No, she doesn't. You're wrong." House sounded annoyed. "Drop it."

But Chase was determined. "What's going on? Is this some kind of bet with Wilson?"

At that, House laughed outright. "Hell no. Wilson and I bet money, not parking spots."

"Then why?" Chase saw House reaching for his cane, ready to leave the car and thus end the conversation, and he reached out and grabbed House's wrist before he could even think about it. "House..."

House turned to look at him in surprise, and it dawned on Chase that this was probably the first non-sexual contact that they'd ever had. He wondered if it was too forward, too awkward, if he was invading personal space, but didn't take his hand away. He couldn't. He just stared at House, determined to get an answer out of him.

"You promised to leave it alone," House said pointedly. "You're not going back on your move, are you?"

Point. Chase winced, letting go of House's wrist. House grabbed his cane and shut off the car, opening the door to the frigid winds that were blasting the parking lot. Falling back against his seat and closing his eyes, Chase felt impossibly frustrated.

"Dammit."

It was inaudible over the sound of the car door slamming shut.

oOo

"Good afternoon," Chase said, conjuring up a smile as he opened the door.

"Hello," Kaylee—or maybe it was Kayla—said, giving him a small smile in return. Next to her was a man who could have been her husband. He was looking particularly irate.

Chase glanced down at her chart again. "All right. So, Kayla, your stomach's been giving you trouble? And your knees?"

Kayla nodded. "Yes. Last night, at my girls' talent show, it was just terrible. I tried Advil, but..."

"She ended up screaming," the man said, picking up where she had trailed off with a touch of aggression. "So obviously, it was hurting bad enough. She needs to have it looked at."

"That's what I'm here to do," Chase said in the most placating tone that he could manage. Then he turned back to Kayla. "Can you give me a pain rating of what it was like last night, on a scale of one to ten?" He indicated the chart stuck up on one of the cabinets, which had cartoon faces showing different levels of agony for each number in rather comical ways.

"Um, an eight, maybe?" Kayla said, cocking her head at it.

Chase nodded. "All right. And right now?"

Kayla shook her head. "It's all right now. Maybe a three. But last night..."

"How would you describe the pain?" Chase asked, pulling out a pen and preparing to scribble down some notes. Kayla looked like she needed some prompting, though, so he obliged. "Sharp? Throbbing? Burning?"

She shrugged. "Burning and sharp, maybe? I don't know."

That would have to do. Chase wrote it down almost legibly, and then moved on. "And your knee? Have you been doing anything that might have injured it?"

"I tripped last week at the playground, when Dory fell off the slide. I was running over to see if she was hurt and there was a hollow in the ground that I didn't see..." Kayla grinned with embarrassment. "My ankle hurt for a few days afterward, but my knee was fine."

Chase nodded, reviewing his chart again. "And the only medication you've been taking is ibuprofen, correct?"

"That's what marked down there, isn't it?" the man asked, glaring at him.

Kayla frowned. "Sam, let him do his job."

"I'm going get a colleague of mine to take a look at you, okay?" Chase said, his hand going for the door. "I'd like to have him consult and diagnose."

"What, you don't know what you're doing?" Sam demanded. "I didn't think we came here to see a nurse."

"Dr. Foreman is a neurologist," Chase explained patiently. "It would be much better for him to rule out any neurological problems than me. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sam's mouth opened, but Kayla nodded and Chase was out the door.

oOo

While Foreman took over Kayla's case, Chase skulked his way up to Human Resources with House's file in his hands. It wasn't quite ten, but there was still a pot of coffee and donuts on a table next to the door. He was tempted, but ignored it. The elderly man who was sitting behind the desk waved to him, and Chase nodded in response before crossing over to the copier and beginning to take out forms to copy. Photos, registration forms, documents, charts and surgical post-op notes... He'd barely looked at them. It felt too personal, like he was breaking something that didn't belong to him. Even now, he tried not to look down as he fed another form through the mouth of the copier.

"You gonna use up all our toner, or you here for something useful?" the man suddenly asked.

Chase whirled around, holding up the file in his defense. "I'm, uh, here to return this. Mr. Vogler asked me to run off a few copies of some things before I did." It wouldn't be so bad to slip in a little truth. Jonas didn't know that he was a doctor; there was no reason for him to be suspicious.

Squinting, the old man peered at the file through his glasses. "Vogler's little monkey boy, ain't you? You can just go back there and file it yourself for what I care. I'm eighty-seven, and as soon as Kedell kicks off, old Jonas here'll be the oldest guy around. Too old to be bending over anymore."

Strongly reminded of a few older, senile family members that he'd left behind in Australia, Chase turned around and finished up his copying. He couldn't be up here too long, just long enough to get the file back in place and make it back to the conference room before House would get suspicious. So he hurried to put the papers back in a representable order and grabbed the other stack of still-warm paper from the tray and headed back to the filing cabinets.

"You was in that car accident, weren't you?" Jonas said suddenly.

Chase, in the middle of the G's, looked over his shoulder to see that the man had spun around in his office chair and was watching him with something akin to accusation. He was a little disconcerted, but nodded. "Yeah, I was in a car accident a few weeks ago. I didn't realize it was so interesting."

"Not for the rest of world, it wasn't," Jonas said. "Just us. You're a foreigner—didn't realize it until after all the paperwork was done and drawed, so we had to go back and redo it. And Rudy says that you're his neighbor."

"Yeah, I know Rudy," Chase said, finally finding the spot between Hourus and Hubbely and sticking House's file in its proper place. Shutting the drawer, he slid open the drawer marked "By—Cl" and began flipping through more files.

"Now what're you doing?" Jonas asked, squinting again.

"Nothing," Chase muttered. Finally locating his file, he shoved the copied papers into it and slammed the drawer shut. "Thanks for your help, Jonas."

"Give Ed my regards!" Jonas called out after him.

oOo

By nature, House was suspicious of any half-kind action that was done unto him. It just didn't happen. So Chase supposed that he should have known better than to think that his resident status as "fuckbuddy" would have exempted him from that. From the very second he came into House's office with food in hand, he'd been under interrogation.

"What's that?" House asked, eyeing the food with nothing less than distrust.

"Lunch," Chase said, dumping most of it on the desk and then setting down the two drinks with a little more care.

House's eyes narrowed as he stared at. "What're you compensating for?"

"Nothing." Chase pushed the Ruben towards House, as well as the bag of chips and the Pepsi, studiously not acknowledging that this _was _a lame attempt to make up for the fact that he'd stolen House's file. Not that anyone else needed to know. "If you don't want it, though..."

"I want it," House said, though he still didn't touch it. "You talked to Wilson, didn't you?"

Shaking his head, Chase began peeling off the plastic wrap off of his own sandwich. "No, I didn't. What would that have to do with me buying you lunch, anyways?"

"Wilson always buys me lunch," House said. He finally began to unwrap his sandwich, albeit looking reluctant. "It's too early. Barely eleven."

"So don't eat," Chase said with a shrug. "You can leave it for later or bin it, for all I care."

"Then it's not about the actual eating together part." Sandwich not even fully unwrapped, House had forgotten all about it and was staring at Chase with an 'I Just Figured It Out' look on his face. "You only care that _you _spent the money, not that I enjoy it. Which means that I don't know about it yet. Did you make out with Cameron?"

Chase groaned, reaching up and rubbing his eyes. "House," he said in exasperation. "It's a bloody sandwich. This is last time I'm buying you lunch."

"You didn't deny it," House said, but he was relaxing a little now that he'd had his moment of truth. "Which means that I was right."

"I didn't make out with Cameron!" Chase protested (although he had, just two days ago, but he was trying very hard to forget about it).

Waving his sandwich in the air, House shook his head and rephrased. "I was right about you hiding something."

He nearly protested that he wasn't hiding anything, but it would be sort of pointless. Mostly because House wouldn't believe him anyway, but partly because he was hiding a lot of things and there was no need to get House sniffing the right trail. Instead, he ripped open the tiny packet of mayonnaise and busied himself with his own sandwich. Let House think what he wanted to.

"You remembered to hold the pickle." House sounded surprised by this.

"Of course I did," Chase said. "You wouldn't have eaten it if I hadn't, and then this whole thing would be pointless."

"You called it a thing," House said immediately. "A thing with a point."

"Yeah. The point was to do something _nice_. That's what people do," Chase told him, slapping the top half of his sandwich back on and picking it up. "Normal people."

"So it's a lunch date," House surmised. He reached over and grabbed the Pepsi, unscrewing the cap. "That means you're hoping for an office quickie afterwards."

"Yes," Chase said, giving up and going for sarcasm. "Let's fuck each other senseless in your fishbowl of an office. I've always wanted to be an exhibitionist."

House rolled his eyes, swallowing before his spoke. "Well, it doesn't have to be an _office _quickie. We could do it in the on-call rooms."

Chase opened his mouth to reply that he didn't think that sex right after lunch was such a great idea when the sound of the door opening made him turn around and forget about the current conversation.

It was Foreman. He stared at House, then Chase, and then at the food on the table. Clearly puzzled, he cleared his throat and approached the desk. "I didn't realize I was interrupting. Sorry."

"No, you're not. What did you want?" House asked, leaning back in his chair as Foreman came closer.

"Case," Foreman said, handing the file to House. "Woman presenting with joint pain, stomach pain and uveitis."

"Arthritis," House said, clearly bored by the very idea. He went for a bag of chips.

Foreman shook his head. "Young woman. She's in her thirties."

"That's Kayla, isn't it?" Chase asked, setting his lunch down and leaning over to look at the file.

House snatched it away, holding it out of his reach. "How do _you _know her?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Ex-girlfriend?"

Chase rolled his eyes. "She was my clinic patient this morning." He stood up and grabbed the file for himself, quickly stepping away before House could steal it back. "She had uveitis? I didn't notice any visual trouble."

"She's seeing fine," Foreman said. "For now. Are we taking it?"

House let out a long-suffering sigh, his expression resigned. "Fine. Go get Cameron—I'm not moving."

Foreman left with a triumphant look. House returned to eating, and Chase was a bit disappointed. Now that they had a case, he'd have to leave to do tests and run labs and—most unpleasantly—work alone with Foreman, who was no doubt bursting with assumptions about why House and Chase had been having lunch together. At the moment, Chase had no idea what excuse he was going to use.

Catching sight of the chess board that was still set up on House's desk, Chase nearly asked House why he hadn't replaced it yet before he remembered that Foreman would be returning again with Cameron in tow in just a few seconds. His so-called lunch date with House was officially over.

Across the desk, House was watching him silently. He obviously wanted to know what Chase was thinking, but Chase shook his head, indicating that Cameron and Foreman were coming back in a few seconds with a jerk of his head. House rolled his eyes. His hand moved, taking his bishop all the way back to E7, and then he made a supremely inappropriate hand gesture that couldn't have made his intentions clearer if he'd said it aloud. He stopped as soon as Foreman came back in, and Chase hid his laughter underneath a coughing fit.

Foreman waited for him to finish before he started.

"Young woman, joint pain—"

"Yeah, we know," House said, cutting him across. He threw the file at Cameron. "You can catch yourself up. Foreman, Chase—I can't _hear _you."

"Gonorrhea," Chase said quickly.

Foreman shook his head. "It's probably articular. Something rheumatoid."

"That's typically small joints," Cameron said, setting the file down. "This hit her knee."

"Takayasu's arthritis." Foreman had wandered away and was sitting in House's armchair, elbows on his knees. "Covers it."

Chase watched as House pulled out a bottle of Vicodin and began twisting at the cap. "Get a sed rate and serologies." It wasn't opening, and House was clearly frustrated. "Child proof," he muttered, banging the bottle against the edge of the desk, as if it would help matters. "How many kids are hopped up on Vicodin?"

Foreman held out a hand. "Gimmie," he said, ready to catch the bottle.

"Right—like I'd ever get it back." House scowled, gave it one more bang, and then handed it to Chase. "Open it."

"It might not just be her arteries," Cameron said as she watched Chase struggle to open the bottle. "It could be all her blood vessels."

The bottle was impossible. His hand worked at it, twisting at the cap with no avail, and he gave up for a minute. "Vasculitis with stomach pain—it's Behcet's." Cameron nodded, and Chase went back to the bottle. This had to be defective or something.

"She'd have oral sores," Foreman pointed out.

House shook his head without taking his eyes off of Chase, clearly impatient for his pills. "Or genital. Go find them."

Foreman sighed and stood up.

Chase worked at the cap a second more, and then it sprang open and pills went flying everywhere. He froze, hands suspended in the air as he took in the mess of white pills that surrounded him. Trying not to cringe, he made himself look up to House and waited for it.

House was looking at him with raised eyebrows, a smirk on his face. "Never mind, Foreman. Chase can handle the pelvic."

oOo

Jonas was dumping out the last remains of the coffee when Rudy came in. He raised a hand in a half-wave, then turned the water on and began rising out the pot. He wouldn't make another pot until this evening, just before his shift ended. The box of donuts had been finished off by Carl in bookkeeping about a half an hour ago, and it was sitting in the garbage. Jonas went to shut off the water, but Rudy stuck a hand under the water with a rag.

"People leaving crumbs?" Jonas asked, grabbing the towel and drying off the coffee pot.

Rudy nodded as he shut off the water and began wringing out the rag. "Yep."

"Saw your friend today," Jonas said, continuing the conversation. Rudy wasn't a man of many words—usually, he was only a man of one or two words. "Your neighbor."

"Robert?" Rudy asked, his hands still twisting the red cloth, although no more droplets were falling from it.

Jonas shrugged. "Blond. Funny accent. His name Robert?"

Rudy nodded.

"Seemed like a good kid," Jonas said. "He was coming from Vogler, had to return a file. Made some copies, put it away and thanked me. Nice change from that other chap who don't speak nothing but Korean. I thought he was a doctor, so I don't know what he was doing running errands like a monkey boy."

Suddenly, Ruddy was frowning. "House's?"

Jonas shrugged. "Coulda been. Why? What's up with House now?"

Rudy disappeared from the break room, and Jonas followed him out into their work area and watched as Rudy opened one of the cabinets. His fingers moved, fast and deft like his voice never did, and the sounds of files shuffling and flipping filled the room for a moment.

"You looking for House's file?" Jonas asked. He realized that the clean coffee pot was still in his hand, and he set it down on the desk. "What for?"

Rudy took out a file carefully, opened it briefly, and then looked over to Jonas. "Tell Cuddy."

"What?" Jonas said, frowning. He walked over to Rudy and looked at the file—it was Dr. House's.

"Missing," Rudy said, putting the file back in its place.

Jonas was still confused. "Wait, House's file was missing? And now it's back, and you want to tell Cuddy?"

Rudy indicated the phone with one hand, looking at Jonas for a minute, and then he disappeared back into the break room.

Slightly bewildered, Jonas went for the phone to inform Dr. Cuddy that Dr. House's file had been returned today.

oOo

—now—

—safe—

—he's all the—

—hands in blond hair—

—his blue eyes squeezed shut, strong hands gripping—

—possessive—

—the pit of the scar, shadows casting over the dark side of the moon—

—hot sweat—

—swollen lips parted to breathe out a name, whispers like shouts in his ear—

—eyes hidden—

—spinning out and down and here and everywhere he seems to take—

—words—

—rhythm like a drum beating into the head and reverberating to the very ends of—

—don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tsto—

—can'tstopcan'tstopcan'tstopit—

—falling—

—kissing—

—"House"—

—free falling—

—falling—

—"Shh..."—

—landing—

—hold him—

—"Mmm"—

—silence—

oOo

Cuddy's phone rang, and the first thing that she thought was that it was her mother. Her second thought was that the idea was ridiculous, and she swore off all thoughts of her mother calling that very moment. Why would her mother call? She wouldn't hear from her family until April, when they called to remind her how to get to her parent's house, that Passover was only in a few weeks and that cousin Liam was still single and making a killing on Wall Street. It was only February—she had another two months left.

The phone rang again, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"Lisa Cuddy," she said as she brought the receiver up to her ear.

"Dr. Cuddy?" It was her secretary. "I've got Jonas Kipling from Human Resources on the phone."

"Put him through," Cuddy said, and she heard the line beep twice, go silent, and then she heard the faint sound of breathing. "Jonas? This is Lisa. Can I help you?"

"Hi there," Jonas said. "Lookit, I don't mean to bother you, but Rudy says that you were looking for Hou—er, Dr. House's file? It's been missing?"

Cuddy sat up in her chair, suddenly alert. "You found it?" she asked, probably too quickly and too eagerly, but the words were out of her mouth before her professionalism could shut them up.

"Yeah. Robert came in today and put it back," Jonas said.

"Robert?" Cuddy asked, frowning. Surely he didn't mean...

"Blond chap," Jonas said, clearly searching his memory banks for more information. "You know, the foreigner. Got an accent. In a car wreck a bit ago."

"Robert Chase," Cuddy said, knowing of only one blond foreigner employed at PPTH who'd recently been in an accident. But maybe he wasn't guilty. Maybe he had... "Did he say what he had been doing with it?"

"He said Mr. Vogler needed some copies of a few things from the file, so he made 'em and put the file back himself. Didn't say anything about what he needed it for, but he did put 'em in another folder before he left. Might of been his," Jonas said. "I can check, if you want."

Cuddy nodded. "Yes, would you? Thank you so much."

She sat back in her chair and turned the revelation over in her mind. Chase. Out of all the members of House's team to run to Vogler, he wouldn't have been her first pick. He had seemed so loyal to House, the one who stuck up for him steadfastly, continuously, unquestioningly. Why had he betrayed House? Something had to have made him snap. What could House have done to push Chase over the edge?

"Dr. Cuddy?" Jonas's voice said in her ear.

Eager to listen, she adjusted the phone and leaned forward slightly. "What did you find?"

"It's here—copies of stuff from Dr. House's file. Loads of stuff." She could hear papers shuffling from the other end of the line. "Wow. Dr. House gone and done a number on himself with that leg, didn't he?"

"That's private," Cuddy said sternly, and she heard the papers stop.

"Right. Sorry about that. Just seeing how much he copied," Jonas said, sounding contrite. "From the looks of it, everything."

Cuddy sighed heavily, angling the phone away from her mouth so that it wouldn't sound so depressed. Of course Chase had stuck the copies in his own file—it was genius. All he had to do was ask for his file, and it would have been handed over to him without a question. She wondered what he needed House's file for. He'd hurried to put it back only after House had taken notice—but he still needed the information. When was he planning on collecting it? And when had he even gotten the file in the first place?

"Dr. Cuddy?"

She'd forgotten that Jonas was still on the line for a moment.

"Sorry," Cuddy said, quickly coming back into the conversation. "Thank you so much for telling me—I appreciate it."

"Anything you want me to do?" Jonas asked.

She almost said no, when an idea occurred to her. "Yes," she said slowly. "I want you to put everything back the way it was and forget about this... I'd like you to give me a call after Dr. Chase comes to retrieve his file."

"Will do, ma'am" Jonas said, with such character that Cuddy smiled in spite of herself.

"Okay," she said. "Thank you so much. Have a good day."

"Good day to you too." She heard paper moving, and then the line went dead with a click.

Cuddy set the phone back on its cradle, the smile fading from her face as she found herself in yet another mess of Vogler's. There was nothing wrong with Chase had done, if you discounted the violation of privacy, but when House found out, it was going to be like Hiroshima. There was nothing she could do about that. But she could minimize the damage, because she could control when and where the atomic bomb would explode.

oOo

"You find any genital sores on..."

"Kayla. Stop talking."

"We're at work."

"No, we're not. We're in the on call rooms."

"Don't fall asleep, you idiot."

"M'not."

"Genital sores?"

"Yes."

"You're just saying that so that you don't lose your human teddy bear."

"Behcet's. Shut up."

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting comfy."

"I hope you locked the door. My reputation is tanked if anyone walks in and finds you all—"

"Shut _up._"

oOo

Foreman found Cameron in the conference room—it wasn't like she was anywhere else these days—and she looked up at his entrance. Her face brightened and she straightened in her chair, anticipating a conversation with obvious eagerness.

"Hi," she said as he came in.

Foreman nodded. "Hi."

"There's still some coffee in the pot, if you want," Cameron said.

"Nah. Bottom of the pot's never any good." Foreman sat down at the table and leaned back in the chair. He'd just finished Kayla's paperwork and felt rather accomplished. "Are you bored?"

Cameron shrugged. "Yeah."

"Did you see that House and Chase were having lunch together?" Foreman asked, even though he already knew that she had.

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "It was pretty weird. Maybe House is punishing Chase."

"Maybe they're sleeping together," Foreman said, mostly for the shock value.

Cameron's eyes widened. "You don't—no, they can't be. Chase isn't gay. And he's with someone else."

"He's got a girlfriend?" Foreman said, surprised. "Who?"

Relaxing slightly, Cameron sat back in her chair. "I don't know. All he said was that he'd been seeing someone."

"How do you know that the someone isn't a guy?" Foreman asked.

"He... told me," Cameron said. "In not so many words."

"Right," Foreman said, choosing not to press her. "Well, maybe his new girlfriend is shopping for him. Chase actually matched today."

Cameron stopped and thought, and then she stared at Foreman with her mouth hanging open for a minute. "He did!" she said, her voice stunned. "I didn't even notice. She's got to be dressing him."

"I hope they never break up," Foreman said with a grin. "I can look at Chase without getting dizzy now."

"Do you know where House and Chase are right now?" Cameron asked out of the blue.

Foreman shook his head. "No. But House is probably with Wilson, and I think Chase said something about the clinic."

"Did you notice that Chase bought?" Cameron asked suddenly.

"What?" Foreman said, staring at her in confusion.

"Sorry," Cameron said, shaking her head slightly. "Did you notice that Chase bought both of their lunches?"

Slowly, Foreman shook his head. "No. How did you figure that out?"

"I saw it through the wall," Cameron said earnestly. "Chase came in with all of it, set it down on the table and they talked for a long time."

"House is probably blackmailing him," Foreman said with a slight snort. He certainly wouldn't put it past House.

"Maybe they're friends," Cameron suggested.

Foreman stared at her for a beat or two.

"No," they said in unison, and Cameron grinned.

"Definitely not."


	18. You Might Die Trying

**Untouchable **  
**Chapter 18  
**_(You Might Die Trying)_

_Dr. Cuddy,_

_It is not often that I will explain myself, but I believe that you are still carrying certain ideas that no longer hold true in this hospital. As I told you before, what I do with my business is my concern, and mine alone—this includes the matter of the file of Dr. Gregory House. As such, it is not your concern if and why Dr. Robert Chase would be working for me, and I am expecting it to remain so. I will not tolerate you informing anyone else of what you know, nor will I tolerate you impeding him in any way. There are many great Deans of Medicine, Dr. Cuddy, but there are far more who would take your place in a heartbeat, should the opportunity present itself._

_I will not be reminding you again._

_Edward Vogler_

oOo

It was snowing outside. Not the sort that falls lightly, dusting the ground with a breathy white blanket, but _snowing._ Big, fat white snowflakes swirled in howling currents and cyclones outside the window, eventually finding something solid to cling to and sticking there. It was wet snow—excellent for snowball fights and backyard forts, and prone to packing together to condense into sheets of slippery, uneven ice. It would ice over handrails, sidewalks, cars, roads and buildings alike. It was the sort of snow that closed schools and made the lights flicker.

It was also the sort of snow that House hated most.

Everything about it, from the fat snowflakes to the whipping winds to the impossible-to-walk-on parking lots, only served to make his life more miserable. It even went so far as to call out the vague idea of moving down south, which was disconcerting in and of itself. So usually, he would just hole up in his office and weather it out, refusing to take a step outside until it was calm. He avoided blizzards at all costs.

Today, however, was different. Tonight, Chase was going to be his lab rat and stay the night (yet again) so that House could observe his so-called allergic reaction to Chinese food. The snow wasn't so bad that restaurants would close early, but even if it was, he wanted Chase over his place from another night anyway. Strange as it was to think so.

The door opened, and House looked up to see Wilson coming into his office.

"Food?" he asked hopefully, leaning forward to get a better look.

Wilson shook his head. "That would be a no. Sorry."

"You're forgiven," House said with the wave of his hand. "Make it up to me later."

"How about tonight?" Wilson suggested. "We haven't had pizza and beer in nearly a month. I'll pick up the latest horror movies from Blockbuster on my way, if you want."

"Busy tonight," House said, only slightly regretful that he was passing up his ticket to a night of free pizza, beer and movies. "Tomorrow's much better."

Wilson frowned. "You're going to camp out in your office until the storm's over, aren't you?"

Wilson knew him way too well. If it hadn't been for Chase, he would have hit the nail on the head. "Nope," House said, grinning. "I have a pretty young blond scheduled to entertain me for the night. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Wilson rolled his eyes.

House made a mock-sympathetic face. "Aw... Does the little Jewish boy wish he didn't have a wife right now? Too bad."

"I'm glad that I'm married," Wilson said. "I love Julie. Just because you haven't been in a relationship for over five years doesn't mean that the rest of us can't go on with our fully-functional love lives."

"Fully-functional?" House repeated, his tone making it clear what he thought about _that _adjective.

Wilson had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Mostly functional, then. It still beats out your little blonde hookers. Hell, Chase's new girlfriend probably beats them out, too."

House stared. "Chase's what?"

"You know..." Wilson waved a hand. "It's been all around the hospital in the last few hours. Chase has got a girlfriend. Don't tell me that you didn't already know."

"Chase doesn't have a girlfriend," House said. "Where the hell are they getting that idea?"

Wilson shrugged, looking surprised by House's reaction. "It's just what he said. Told Cameron that he was seeing a girl, apparently, and it's all over the hospital."

"What do they care if Chase is dating?" House demanded, knowing that he sounded more angry about this than he should be letting on. "It's not like he's taking numbers."

"No, but there were a lot of people waiting for him to start," Wilson said lightly. "I heard that the some of my nurses even had a pool open as to whether Chase was gay or not."

House scowled. "I didn't realize he was such a hot ticket around here."

"I didn't realize you cared about him so much," Wilson said teasingly. "He's allowed to date people without your consent, isn't he?"

Unable to think of a response that wouldn't give way too much away, House simply glowered at Wilson.

Wilson laughed. "I hope she never meets you, then."

"He doesn't have a girlfriend," House said, trying not to grit his teeth.

"All right, fine," Wilson said easily. "He doesn't have a girlfriend. He was just _lying _when he was talking to Cameron."

House was about to throw back a nasty retort when, in a moment of incredible bad timing, Chase came in with a file in his hands. He glanced from House to Wilson, not sensing that his entrance had just brought an end to a conversation about his love life.

"I, uh, did your clinic duty," Chase said to House. "Thought you might want to know."

But House was watching Wilson intently, dread creeping into the pit of his stomach. Wilson was staring at Chase, his face a window into the inner-workings of his mind. He recognized the clothes that Chase was wearing and was trying to place them. He was thinking, glancing at Chase and then to House, and the moment that he realized it could not have been more obvious. If this had been a cartoon, it would have been a light bulb moment.

"_Oh..._"

"Wrong," House said immediately. "Definitely wrong."

"What?" Chase asked, staring at him in confusion.

Wilson was nodding and grinning as he looked from House to Chase. "I can't believe it."

"Wrong. You could not be wronger, even if you tried. If Princeton were 'right', you'd be in some jungle in Cambodia, that's how wrong you are," House said, knowing that he was being ridiculous and not caring. "Wrong, wrong, wro—"

"This is amazing," Wilson said, grinning madly. "Chase, best of luck to you. You're going to need it."

"What?" Chase was lost. "What are you—House! You told him, didn't you?"

Standing up, Wilson laughed and shook his head. "Have a good night, House." He was still chuckling as he walked out the door.

House, feeling disgruntled, glared up at Chase. "You have impeccable timing."

"What did I do?" Chase asked. "You obviously told him!"

"Your clothes told him," House said.

"Then it _is_ your fault. You were the one who said that he wouldn't notice," Chase said indignantly. "And it had to be more than the clothes. You've been dropping him little hints all along, haven't you?"

He had been, but that was beside the point. "So who loses the game? Me, or you?"

Chase looked confused for a minute, then his eyes fell on the chessboard and he realized what House was talking about. "Oh. Right. Well, he doesn't know about the chess game, does he?"

"Don't think so," House said, glancing past Chase as if Wilson were standing just outside of his office again. "Probably not."

"Then it doesn't matter. He can't know that the game is going on, and he doesn't," Chase said. "No one loses. But... you don't think he's going to tell anyone, do you?"

House shrugged. "Cuddy. And his psychologist. Don't worry, you've got enough rumors going around about you."

Surprise crossed Chase's face at the word 'psychiatrist', but he didn't comment. All he said was, "Rumors?"

"Yeah. Care to tell my why you felt the need to inform Cameron that you were 'seeing someone'?" House asked, making finger quotations to emphasize his point.

"Who did she tell?" Chase asked, looking alarmed.

House snorted. "According to Wilson, the whole hospital. So—why?"

For a split second, something like terror crossed Chase's face, but it was gone so fast that House was almost sure that he'd imagined it. He filed it away for later examination, and focused just in time to hear Chase's excuse.

"We were talking about the Valentine's Day benefit—she wanted to know if I would go with her. That's all," Chase said, without a trace of the panic that House has thought he'd seen only seconds ago. "She didn't ask you, too?"

Raising his eyebrows, House waited patiently for Chase to realize his error.

"Oh," Chase said as he remembered. He sat down in the chair across from House's desk. "Forgot that you've been a dick to her for the last three weeks. Sorry."

"I'm not," House said. He glanced at the clock. "About check out time, isn't it?"

Chase sighed. "I suppose."

"C'mon, bubble boy. It's going to be fun!" House insisted, standing up.

Shaking his head, Chase left to go get his coat. He hoped that tonight would be enough proof for House, because it wasn't an experience he was keen on repeating for the fourth time in his life. Three was quite enough, thanks.

oOo

"You should move in with me."

"I should move in with you."

"Why not?" House asked. He was poking his cane around Chase's video game collection, quite unconcerned with the mess that he was creating. "Done it for the last five nights. Save on rent—you do dishes, I'll do laundry. It'll be great."

Chase was about to laugh, when he turned around and caught sight of House's face. The offer may have been swaddled with jokes and sarcasm, but House wasn't kidding around. Chase suddenly felt like he'd been shoved out of an airplane. "I—uh... Well."

"Start with sentences," House suggested. "Ones that begin with, 'Yes, of course, House'."

Chase said the first thing that came to mind. "Um, that's kind of sudden, don't you think?"

House was staring at the video games again, carefully spinning one in a circle, but he shrugged in response. "No. How much longer do you want to wait?"

The parachute was officially not opening. "Um. I don't—it's... I didn't think you were into the whole sharing thing."

"You can cook," House said. "And you keep the bed warm. I'm good with the whole sharing thing."

He couldn't do this. As soon as House found out about Vogler, he'd be kicked out faster than you could say 'Vicodin'.

"I just—it's really sudden. You know? Most people don't make decisions like this so fast." Crash landing approaching. "It's not that it's a bad idea, because I don't—"

He stopped as he noticed that House was staring at him with obvious amusement.

"Wow." House looked impressed. "You really _are _afraid of commitment, aren't you?"

"No," Chase said immediately, and at House's snort, he quickly added, "I'm not afraid of commitment. In general. But you—you're..." What he wanted to say was 'committing to you would be like strapping a stick of fifty-year-old dynamite to my wrist and then doing some jumping jacks', but he didn't think that it would go over too well. "You're something else. And if you're done playing with my video games, we can go."

House let out a huge sigh. "Fine. We can go. And we'll return in another week, so you can get another week's worth of clothes and grab the shampoo and the charger for the cell phone. And the week after that, you'll grab a few movies with some more of the clothes. Then it'll be the rest of the clothes, the X-Box and you'll cancel the newspaper subscription—am I being too subtle here?"

"Yes. Food's getting cold," Chase said, adjusting his coat and pulling his hat over his head as he got ready to go back out into the blizzard. "You coming?"

"Duh. What am I gonna do, stay here all night?" House said, breezing past Chase and wrenching the door open. "Your apartment's ugly."

Chase was about to protest, because he thought it looked rather nice, but House wasn't the first person to call it ugly and he couldn't find it in himself to disagree anyway. So he followed House out the door and made sure to turn the lock before he shut the door. They drove over to House's apartment slowly, the traffic crawling along as the roads became steadily worse and the visibility whittled away until it was close enough to the first whiteout that Chase had ever been in. Thankfully, House seemed to know what he was doing and guided them down road after road until they finally pulled over to the side.

For a minute, Chase thought House was merely stopping on the side of the road to wait until the conditions improved, but then he realized that they were actually in front of the apartment.

Getting the door of the car open was a slight challenge. The wind wanted to blast it back and rip it off of its hinges, and Chase wrestled with it for a minute while he tried to pick up the Chinese food, his clothes and messenger bag with his other hand. After a minute of struggling (for House was of no help, already inside and getting warm), Chase got it all and stood up. He stepped back and slammed the door shut, rocking slightly as a gust of wind swirled around him.

Upon making it inside, Chase glared at House.

"Thanks for the help," he said as he set everything down to his right, and then began peeling off his jacket.

House was on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. "You're welcome. Anything I can do to help."

Chase sighed, ripping his hat off and tucking it into the pocket of his jacket. "Jackass," he muttered as he worked off his shoes.

"And yet you love me anyway," House said sweetly. "How touching."

Avoiding a response to that comment, Chase shook out his hair and brushed snowflakes from his pants before picking up the bag of food. "So how long am I going to have to suffer before you'll believe me?"

House had left enough room for Chase on the couch. "Until it stops, obviously," he said, holding out his hands for the bag. "What good would it do if I stopped it early?"

"You don't even have an Epi pen or something, just in case it's really bad?" Chase asked, feeling worried for the first time.

"It won't be that bad," House said, rolling his eyes. "Trust me. I'm a doctor."

Chase didn't feel entirely reassured, but then again, he really didn't have a choice in the matter, did he? House was holding out a Styrofoam container, and he took it without further protest. A pair of rubber-banded chopsticks was thrown his way, landing on his lap. Reluctantly, he pulled the rubber band off and used his other hand to open the container up.

Sweet and sour chicken.

He glanced over to House, who was watching him keenly. He obviously had no plans of eating until after the show had begun.

Sighing and resigning himself to his fate, Chase began eating.

"Well, this is fun," House said after Chase had eaten his fourth piece of chicken.

Chase swallowed. "It doesn't happen right away. It takes a while."

Looking a little bit disappointed, House started shifting through the bag for his own dinner. Chase hid a smirk behind his next piece of chicken.

The next few minutes drifted by quietly. House ate slowly, taking a bite and then chewing it contemplatively, staring at the blank television screen. It was a little strange, but Chase wasn't unnerved by it. He'd seen House in much weirder moods.

"So Wilson knows about us," House finally said.

Chase nodded. "Yeah. What's it to him?"

House shrugged. "Probably a lecture coming tomorrow. He laughed today, but all of the 'Reasons Why House is an Idiot' will come to him tonight, and he'll have the pressing need to tell me first thing in the morning."

"Sounds fun," Chase said, unable to hold back a grin.

Glaring, House took another bite of noodles.

"You said that he's going to tell Cuddy, too. Why?" Chase asked, having been curious earlier. "I didn't think that they were that good of friends."

"They're only good friends when it comes to talking about me behind my back," House said, although he didn't sound bitter about it. He seemed more amused than anything. "It's supposed to be a secret, most of the time."

"What do you think she's gonna do?" Chase asked, shifting so that he could reach for the napkins that House had tossed on the table in his search for food.

"She'll be pissed, first. Then she'll give it up and tell you that I'm really, secretly delicate and fragile, and that if you have any problems, her door's open." He was watching Chase wipe his fingers on the napkin, like he couldn't quite believe that someone could care so much about being clean. "And then she'll lecture me about sexual harassment after you leave. Why the hell are you wiping your hands?"

"Because they're dirty," Chase said, although they weren't anymore. He set the napkin down and pulled the bag of food over towards him. "She's going to think that you're sexually harassing me?"

"Probably," House said.

Chase frowned. "Don't be so flippant about it. I don't want to have to deal with her asking me if I feel 'violated' three times a day."

"She's going to henpeck you whether or not I'm being flippant about it," House said, rolling his eyes. "There's no escaping her."

"Do you think she'd ever believe the truth?" Chase asked.

House stared at him, suddenly suspicious. "What's the truth?"

"That I seduced you," Chase said obviously.

"You did not," House said immediately, putting down his food as he prepared to fight. "I was the one who said 'let's have sex'."

Chase stopped, putting his own chopsticks down. "No, I'm pretty sure it was _me _who told you to meet me in the exam room."

"That doesn't count," House said immediately. "You canceled. The morgue was my idea."

"I started the game of Dare Chess in the first place," Chase countered.

"Ah," House said, holding up a finger. "But it was _my _innate sexiness that founded your little crush in the first place. Therefore, I win."

Chase opened his mouth to say that he'd had no such crush when he remembered that it was the story that he'd initially fed House. He shut his mouth, briefly weighing his options, but there really wasn't anything he could do but let House win lest he start questioning why Chase had _actually _started the game. So he swallowed his pride and merely glared at House.

House grinned in his victory. "Told you. I'm always right."

"Are not," Chase retorted, picking up his chopsticks again. It was the least he could do to salvage a little of his dignity.

"Am so," House said.

"Are—" Chase stopped as he realized what a childish argument the whole thing was. He quickly went back to his food.

House was smug. "Am so."

Rolling his eyes, Chase took a bite and reminded himself that it would be far below his level of maturity to stick his tongue out at House. As he swallowed, he noted that his throat felt a little tight, but ignored it. He'd have at least ten more minutes before things got serious.

"So... Are we going to the Valentines Day Benefit?" House asked, drawing out the sentence like each word was running honey off of his tongue.

Chase swallowed, staring at him in confusion. "I thought you didn't have a choice."

"You're missing the pronoun in there. We. Are _we _going to the Valentine's Day Benefit?" House asked, staring at Chase intently.

"I don't know," Chase said, shrugging slightly. He shifted slightly, feeling the sudden urge to take in a huge, gasping breath—but then it was gone, and he felt fine. "I guess it's only a matter of time before the rest of the hospital knows, now that Wilson and Cuddy found out."

"Your brother and sister are going to be jealous," House said with a delighted look. Then he paused and frowned. "Well, your sister at least."

"Foreman'll say he knew all along." Chase was half-grinning now.

House shook his head. "No, he'll say that he didn't mean for you to take the phrase ass-kisser literally."

"I didn't—although it's a shame he never called me a cocksucker," Chase said, the grin fading slightly as a suddenly sweltering sensation squeezed him of air—only for a few seconds—and then lapsed away into the background. Ensuring that House wouldn't notice, he continued. "It would have been much more foretelling. And descriptively accurate."

He actually got a snort out of House for that one, although the momentary pleasure was mixed with a faint dizziness. Chase set down his food on the little coffee table.

"So you're saying yes," House surmised. As he said it, he was staring at Chase's food. "Action time?"

Chase scowled and ignored the fact that his palms had indeed begun to sweat. "No. I'm just done eating for the moment."

House rolled his eyes. "Right. So, yes?"

"That we're going to the benefit?" Chase asked.

"Duh," House said, making a corresponding if-rocks-could-breed-you'd-be-the-result face.

Chase shrugged. "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I asked you first," House said.

"I—" Chase stopped as, simultaneously, his chest tightened and an idea struck. Swallowing and hoping that House had only seen the flash of realization, he focused his vision—which had, at some point, gone hazy. "Knight to A5. Do you think we should go to the Valentine's Day Benefit?"

House glared.

"You're not refusing, are you?" Chase asked, a grin splitting on his face despite himself. Behind it, he worked to keep his breathing steady.

"What if I am?" House shot back, folding his arms over his chest.

Chase swallowed, opening his mouth to answer, but he suddenly couldn't. He could barely breathe, his chest tightening and squeezing, and he felt the sweltering heat again. His mouth felt funny, as if it were numb and being pressed shut, even though he knew that it was open and gasping for air. He tried to answer House's question, tell him that he'd lose, but he couldn't find his tongue. He couldn't find the air. He—he needed air, more air.

This time, House took notice.

"Chase, breathe," House said firmly, reaching over and putting his fingers on the inside of Chase's wrist.

Chase shook his head, trying to say that he couldn't slow down. Panic was starting to set in, starting to creep into the folds of his mind, and he felt electrified and sick at the same time. His heart was beating in his chest and he felt it like it was constricting his entire body with each beat, thrumming his ears and squeezing his esophagus.

"Jesus," he heard House say, but he wasn't seeing House with his voice anymore. He saw House. He heard the voice. They were two different things. Which belonged to which? "Such a wuss. How many fingers am I holding up?"

He was staring at the images that didn't make sense, looking around wildly for something that wasn't there. He needed to find it, needed to have it because if he did, this would be over. There was a coffee table, a dark leather pattern, a white box—no, lots of white boxes—and there was a hand—

"None," Chase gasped, remembering the question suddenly. There were no fingers on the hand, just a fist hanging above his face. He didn't know if the voice—if House—had heard it, but he'd said it and he knew it. No fingers. No air. No fingers. Keep breathing, more and more because it's never enough to fill the lungs and slow the heart and why couldn't he feel his mouth? There was something on it, something stuck there and it wouldn't let him open it (but it was open) and his tongue wouldn't work because it was being pressed and squeezed and he couldn't feel it either. Everything hurt, everything pulsated like a giant heartbeat, and now there was...

Black dots. Purple dots. Things aren't right anymore, spinning and clashing and slowing down, shutting down. Nothing feels right, the head isn't connected to the body and the arms aren't the arms that want to move. Arms—House. House's arms. Not... not his. Moving like the sounds in the ears, in waves and crashes and crackles and crashes and crackles and…

He heard breathing.

Steady.

Rhythm.

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the ceiling. He blinked, and then realized what had happened.

"House!" he said, pushing himself up with his hand on the couch. His head whipped around frantically for a minute, wondering how long he'd been out and what had happened and if there was even anybody in the apartment with him. And then he heard water running.

It was coming from the kitchen, right behind him. But before Chase could get up, House was there in front of him.

"You're welcome," House said graciously, pointedly.

Chase glared. "I'm _not_ thanking you. What the hell happened?"

"You almost had a heart attack," House said. "Luckily, I saved you from the icy black hands of death. You're welcome."

"You… Did you give me an Epi pen?" Chase asked suspiciously, looking around for a discarded syringe on the floor.

House took a seat next to him, and Chase put his legs down on the ground to make more room because somewhere along the line, he'd ended up lying on the couch. "You're about a minute too late. Just threw it out. You were only out for about five minutes."

"But you said you didn't have an Epi pen," Chase said, his eyes narrowing. "You lied."

"I did not," House said with a faint smirk. "I said that you should trust me."

Chase sighed and fell back against the couch, feeling the effects of his allergic reaction begin to seep into his body. The worst part was over, save for a killer headache that was beginning to split his head in two and the feeling of cold sweat drying. He suppressed the urge to reach over and smack House, just for being the ass that he was.

"So do you believe me now?" he asked, not opening his eyes as he did.

House snorted. "I believed you before. The point was to see if you'd do it."

Chase's eyes shot open as he turned to stare at House, his mouth open in anger. "What?"

"You heard," House said, reaching for his cane. "You made a deal. I was curious to see if you'd go through with it."

Trying not to say the first few words that came to mind, Chase pressed a fist to his forehead and gritted his teeth. He felt rather than heard House get up, and then could hear the uneven footsteps padding down the hallway. When, after a minute or so, he no longer felt like strangling House, Chase opened his eyes and sighed. He pushed himself off the couch and headed to the bathroom in search of ibuprofen for his headache. On the way, though, he stuck his head in House's bedroom and said, "And you said _I_ was the with commitment issues."

There was no reply.


	19. Totally Fucked

**Untouchable**  
**Chapter 19  
**_(Totally Fucked)_

"Good morning, Dr. Chase. Muffin?"

Chase blinked, slightly surprised by the hospitality. "Uh, no. Thanks. Let's just get this over with."

Vogler shrugged, nodding. "All right. I'll make this simple, then."

Shifting in his chair, Chase exhaled slowly and waited. He felt uncomfortable with the whole situation and wanted to be out of the office as soon as he could. House would be suspicious if this took him too long.

"I've given you a month," Vogler said. "I believe that should have been adequate time. So now I need for you to fulfill the other end of your bargain—I want you to do it at the Valentine's Day Benefit."

"What?" Chase stared at him, dumbfounded. He'd seen it coming. He'd known why Vogler had wanted to talk to him—and yet it was still like a kick in the stomach. He couldn't believe that he'd really heard Vogler say it. He just... couldn't.

"You don't have a choice," Vogler reminded him with a pointed look. "You will do it, or face the consequences."

Chase opened his mouth to protest again, but thought better of it. Arguing was only going to get him fired. So he nodded instead, pressed his lips together, and stood up to leave. His mind was boggling at the idea. But he shut the door behind and started walking away from Vogler's office calmly, as if they'd merely had a pleasant chat about the weather.

Right.

So, first things first. He was going to have to take this in baby steps, otherwise the guilt might consume him.

oOo

Wilson was walking to Cuddy's office, feeling as exasperated as he usually did after talking to House. He'd tried to tell him that the whole thing was going too fast, that House should stop and think about things for a minute but—as he'd known would happen all along, somewhere in the back of his mind—House had informed him that he didn't need Louis XVI giving him advice on how to run his kingdom. So now he was going to talk to Cuddy and see if she had any advice on the situation. She usually did, even if it was sometimes, "I'll fix it, don't worry." He didn't mind it so much that she wasn't afraid to play games with House—it was just that whenever she tried, House ended up winning.

He found Cuddy alone in her office, working on her computer. She looked up at his entrance, smiled briefly, and then went back to her computer. She clicked a few times, typed a few last words, and then finished and sat back in her chair.

"Good morning."

He smiled back, taking a seat on her couch. Something about the quiet office was taking away the frustrated edge that had been grinding at him since he'd talked to House. "Good morning. I don't meant to interrupt, but I wanted to talk to you about something."

Cuddy frowned, leaning forward slightly. "What's wrong?"

Wilson sighed. There was nothing wrong, per se, and he told her so.

"Then what is it?" Cuddy asked. "It's House, isn't it?"

"House is sleeping with Chase," Wilson said baldly.

Cuddy stared at him blankly for second, then her face slowly, without any obvious change, became stunned. "You can't be serious."

"Yeah," Wilson said, giving her a wry smile. " I just found out last night."

"No, I mean—Chase _can't_ be sleeping with House," Cuddy said, sounding almost as if she were talking to herself. "He can't be. That doesn't make any sense. Chase..."

Wilson shook his head. "I don't know what either are of them are thinking, to be honest. I mean, I guess that we all kind of thought that Chase was gay, but not—"

"What?" Cuddy interrupted sharply, fixing Wilson with a piercing stare.

Abruptly uncomfortable, Wilson avoided her eyes and rubbed at the back of is neck. "Well, maybe not everyone, but a lot of people... It was just the popular rumor—er, assumption, really. No one had ever outright said anything." Wilson neglected to mention the betting pool he'd heard some mutterings about, even though Cuddy doubtlessly knew about it already.

Cuddy shook her head. "No, no, I knew that. It's just so odd..."

"That it's House he's with?" Wilson tried.

Cuddy shook her head again, this time somewhat absently. "No, that actually... That actually makes sense."

Wilson stared. "How in the name of god does that make sense?"

"Never mind," Cuddy said, waving a hand dismissively. "How are they? You know—together. Are they happy?"

Shrugging, Wilson stood up. "I suppose so. I haven't really seen them together. But for what it's worth, House has yet to ask me for a Vicodin refill since I've been back—nearly a week."

Cuddy looked impressed. "Okay. I won't argue with that. I take it you've already spoken to House?"

But Wilson was frowning, with the look of a person who was somewhere in between confusion and the epiphany.

"Wilson?" Cuddy asked cautiously.

"You know something," Wilson said, the freshness of the realization shining on his face. "What? What aren't you telling me?"

Cuddy opened her mouth, clearly about to deny it, when she suddenly exhaled. Her face crumpled. "I can't tell you," she said, sounding like she was at the end of her rope with the whole thing. "Wilson, I wish I could, but it'd cost me my job. I'm sorry. But... But if I were you, I wouldn't trust Chase. He's not as honest as he comes off."

"Is it Vogler?" Wilson asked, although he had a strong suspicion that it was, and even if Cuddy were to deny it, he'd probably still think so.

"I can't say," Cuddy said, looking frustrated. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just that if... someone... were to hear that I let it out, I wouldn't be here anymore."

"It's all right," Wilson said quickly. "You don't have to tell me. But Chase isn't trustworthy—got it. I don't think House would listen to anything I had to say, but I'll be ready for something."

Cuddy nodded. Her phone rang, and she gave Wilson an apologetic look. "Hang on," she said, picking it up and bringing the phone to her ear. "Hello? Yes, go ahead."

Wilson sat back down, leaning over so that his elbows were on his knees, and he stared at the ground. Chase. What could Chase possibly be doing? Vogler. He must be the one working for Vogler, exchanging information for protection. But then why would he start sleeping with House? It didn't make any sense, unless Vogler was ordering him to find out personal information about House. What would Vogler do with House's favorite pizza toppings, though? Why would he want to know if House slept on the right or left side of the bed? Wilson couldn't think of any decent reason why someone would want to know such things.

Unless Vogler hadn't told Chase to get close to House. What if Chase was sleeping with House because he actually wanted to?

It wasn't an entirely implausible idea, Wilson thought. Chase obviously had dealings with Vogler that House didn't know about. If he also happened to be in a relationship with House, would it really make a difference? Sure, working for Vogler would ensure the short-term survival of both their employment and their relationship, but on the other hand, they both seemed sincere about the whole thing. Maybe Chase was counting on House firing him after he was found out, and wanted to make the most of the time he had left.

"Thank you, Jonas," Cuddy was saying. "I appreciate it."

Wilson sat up, sensing that the conversation was going to be over soon.

"Okay. You too," Cuddy said, and then she hung up the phone. She stared at her desk, processing the phone call and probably its ramifications, and then she snapped out of it and looked over to Wilson. "I've got something to take care of—we'll have to cut this short. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Wilson said. "I should get back to work, anyways. Thanks for the tip."

Cuddy nodded. "Any time."

oOo

Chase avoided looking anyone in the eye as he walked down the hall. Somehow, he knew—he _knew_—that if anyone looked him in the eye, they'd know. They'd cross over to him, cut off his path, demand to know what was in the file he was holding... It couldn't happen. So he kept his head down and briskly walked through the corridors of the hospital. He had to make it to the conference room, get the file into his messenger bag. Then everything would be okay.

He had House's information tucked into his file, and he'd have to look at it and learn it soon. The Valentine's Day Benefit was next Monday, and today was Saturday—it didn't give him much time. It wasn't nearly enough time. He didn't know how he was going to survive these next eight days with the knowledge of what was going to happen—really, he didn't know how he was going to survive these next eight days with the knowledge that they were all he had left. He wished that he could take the week off with House, just so that he could spend every last second with him.

But he knew that House would never go for it, and not only that, but he'd be suspicious about the whole thing.

Chase would just have to take what he had and be grateful for it.

His brain was whirling with ideas, scenarios that made him feel sick, and he wished that he could stop it. But Chase knew that it was reality. He had to start thinking about it—he'd put it off for way too long already. After nearly a month, the right idea came unbidden to his mind, and he knew that if he wanted to do the thing properly, he wouldn't have any choice—

"Dr. Chase!"

Chase nearly jumped out of his skin, looking around wildly to see who had called his name. He quickly zeroed in on Cuddy, who was walking towards him from the opposite direction. She did not look happy.

"Good morning," she said as she approached him, but there was no smile on her face.

Chase had the urge to run. He felt like she knew—but how could she know? How could she possibly know that?

Cuddy's eyes went down to the file in Chase's hands. "Can I see that file, please?"

She had to know. Chase felt his heart jump into his throat. "Why?"

"I think you know why," Cuddy said evenly, holding out a hand.

"No," Chase said, and it was second before he realized that the word had left his mouth. Shit. He'd just said no to his boss. He'd never done that before—what was she going to do? What could she do? Vogler would protect him, wouldn't he? He had to, he'd promised that he would.

Cuddy looked as surprised as he felt at his answer. "Give me the file, Chase."

But Vogler would protect him, and Chase ran with it. "No. I'm sorry Dr. Cuddy, but it's private."

"You lose the right to privacy when you break the law," Cuddy said, still holding out her hand.

He _was _technically breaking the law. It was a violation of privacy at the very least, and petty theft if you really wanted to push it. But he didn't have a choice, and he didn't think that Cuddy would send him to jail. He hoped that she wouldn't send him to jail, because it was either steal the file or lose his job. "How did you find out?" he asked instead, hoping to dodge the whole file-surrendering thing.

"House told me that his file was missing a few days ago," Cuddy said. "Then I heard that you had been the one to put it back, and things fell into place. So, why don't you tell me what you're going to do with House's information?"

Chase swallowed. "You don't want to know," he said bluntly. He wasn't sure where he was suddenly getting the courage to stand up to his boss, but he hoped that the well didn't run out any time soon.

"I think I do," Cuddy said, taking a step closer.

Taking a step back, Chase gripping the file tighter and shook his head. 'Trust me. It wouldn't make a difference—you can't do anything about it."

"Can you?" Cuddy shot back.

"No," Chase said. "I can't. I stopped having a say in things a long time ago."

"Did Vogler tell you to start sleeping with House?" Cuddy asked pointedly.

Chase stared at her in shock for a second, and then his brain caught up with his mouth. "Wilson told you," he said, half-sighing. "Okay. No, Vogler didn't make me start sleeping with House. That was me."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed. She obviously didn't believe Chase, even though it was true. Technically. All Vogler had said was for Chase to get close to House—actually, Chase was fairly certain that Vogler was still under the impression that he and House were merely friends.

"Excuse me—Dr. Chase?"

They both turned to look at the nurse who had interrupted their conversation. He was in green scrubs and stood shorter than both Cuddy and Chase. His eyes darted from one to the other, and Chase didn't think that he knew who Cuddy was, because he didn't look very apologetic for barging in.

"You've got a phone call on line one," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the nearby nurse's station. "She says her name's Heather."

Chase felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at the nurse in shock. "Heather?" he asked, but his mouth had gone dry and the sound didn't come out right.

The nurse nodded. "Yeah. Line one."

The last thing that should have been running through his mind was how on earth they'd located him, but it was the first thing that occurred to him. He glanced at Cuddy, who was obviously confused about who Heather was, and then to the nurse. He knew what Heather had to say—she wouldn't call for any other reason—and he knew that he had to take the phone call.

"Okay," he said. This time, the words came out fine. "All right. Dr. Cuddy, I'll talk to you later."

Chase left Cuddy standing there and walked over to the phone that was plainly visible. The light on the board next to it was flashing, and he pressed the button next to it. Then he picked up the receiver, picked up and drew in a deep breath. "Hello?"

"Robert," Heather said, like a huge sigh of relief. Even though he could only hear her voice, Chase got the impression that she'd just collapsed into a chair as she'd spoken. "Thank god."

Chase wasn't sure what to say at first, but eventually he realized that Heather was waiting for him to ask. So he swallowed and asked. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Heather sucked in a breath, like she hadn't expected him to be so blunt. She paused, and then there was sniffle. "Yes. I'm so sorry, Robert. He—it was this morning. He was asleep, they went to wake him up for breakfast and... I'm sorry."

He'd been ready for it. He'd known from the moment that the nurse had told him that it was Heather on the phone that his father was dead. He'd known for a while now that it was coming, and he'd convinced himself that it didn't matter. But now that he was hearing it, it did matter. It mattered a lot.

"It's okay," he said, the words coming almost automatically. He couldn't think. "Are you all right?"

Heather sniffed again, and he heard her exhale shakily. "Yes, I'll be fine. Thanks. The, um, the funeral is on Tuesday. I think that Rowan would have really liked for you to be there."

The idea flew through his mind, but he barely processed it. He didn't know what he was thinking. All he wanted to do was sit down, right there on the floor.

"Robert?"

His chest had knotted tightly, making it hard to breathe. He could see his father lying on the hospital bed, the velvet wrinkles of his skin gone gray and the monitors around him black. He suddenly wanted to know what his father's pain regimen had been, he wanted to see the charts from the last few weeks and read every last detail and somehow get a clue as to what his father's life had been like these last few days. He needed to know if he'd been in pain, if he'd been lucid, if he'd woken up… If he'd thought of his estranged son at all.

Chase had never wanted so badly to see his father. Images of past birthdays and soccer games that his father had been to, standing tall with a shining smile on his face, flashed through his mind like scenes of a disjointed movie. He remembered the smell of peppermint and tobacco on his father's coat, inhaled as he'd wrapped his arms around his father's waist and squeezed as tightly as he could before his father left to work, even though it would make his eyes water and he'd cough a little afterward. He needed to smell it again, hear his father's voice once more. He needed it. He needed it so bad he felt like his chest might rip in half.

His father. Rowan Chase. Whose dead body was lying in Australia, string and tag wrapped around his big toe and ready to be embalmed, fitted up with his best suit, a Bible placed in between his fingers and his dead hair combed to one side. To be showcased to his wife and numerous colleagues.

Chase felt dizzy.

"Dr. Chase?"

A voice from behind him made his snap back to reality. He turned around and found a woman standing in front of him. He ought to know who she was.

"Hi," the woman said, giving him a smile.

"Hi," Chase said, blinking back tears he hadn't even realized were in his eyes. Swallow. Under control. He was working, had to keep working.

"Kayla," the woman said, obviously sensing his confusion. "I'm here for the test... My arm?" She pulled up her sleeve to reveal a swollen pustule.

Chase suddenly remembered. Behcet's. House hadn't believed that he'd found genital sores. "Oh," he said. He realized that he was still holding the phone, and hung up before he remembered that Heather was still on the line, and that he hadn't said good bye. He found that he didn't really care. "Oh yeah. Um... Okay—it's positive. Talk to Nurse Previn; get an appointment with Dr. Broston in rheumatology."

Rheumatology. Jesus.

Chase fought back a wave of emotion, turning to leave before he lost control.

"I took that medicine you gave me," Kayla said suddenly. "But my stomach still hurts."

Stopping took every last ounce of Chase's self control. He would listen to her and take care of her, even if wanted to run in the opposite direction to someplace quiet and dark and locked so that he could deal with this. But he focused on Kayla, the cause of her stomach pain popping in to his head almost automatically. He didn't give it a second thought.

"Behcet's could be stronger than we thought, or it could be the prednisone," he said as he pulled out his prescription pad. In his other hand was the file, and he quickly changed hands so that he could draw out a pen. Using the file as a makeshift clipboard, he quickly scribbled down another medication and tore off the top slip. "This is a stronger antacid."

He put the prescription pad away, gripped the file tightly in his hands and went to leave again. It was almost over, he was almost to safety, all he had to do was make it to the nearest on call rooms. So close, so close, so close, so—

"Doctor?"

Unwillingly, Chase turned around again. "Yes?"

Kayla stopped, and then shook her head. "Nothing."

Chase was gone, heading for the refuge of an empty on call room.

oOo

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into, House!" Wilson shouted after him.

House rolled his eyes, ignoring him. Wilson had—as predicted—found his way into House's office again and proceeded to pace a hole in the carpeting while he vented his feelings about the whole matter. House had stopped listening approximately three minutes in, had gotten bored of sitting in his office chair about five minutes in, and after seven minutes, had stood up with the intent of leaving Wilson to find Chase. He hadn't seen him for nearly two hours.

"Where's Chase?" he demanded of his other two ducklings, who were sitting around the conference table.

They both shrugged.

Frustrated, House limped out the door and began making his way down the hallway. Where would Chase be? ICU, maybe, or the clinic. But his clinic hours were finished for the week, so there was no reason for him to be in there—and Chase hadn't mentioned that he was going to be working in ICU this morning. House had also paged Chase twice already and he hadn't answered, and would have if he'd been in ICU. It was enough for him to decide that Chase's whereabouts were indeed a mystery.

His scowl deepened as he reached the elevators and found that there was a huge crowd of people there waiting to get on. But he wasn't taking the stairs, so House adjusted his grip on his cane and pulled out his pager. Once more, just in case.

_PAWN TO D6—WHERE ARE YOU?_

He sent it just as the elevator dinged, and the doors parted. House quickly took advantage of his status as a cripple and pushed his way through the crowd, ensuring that he got a spot. He even got a little bit of elbow room, because no one wanted to impede upon the poor old man with the cane. It occurred to him suddenly that he had no idea which floor to go to. He'd just settled on the first floor when his pager went off.

Heads turned in his direction, most looking surprised that he had a pager, because that obviously meant that he was some kind of medical person—and jeans and t-shirt weren't exactly the associated uniform of a doctor or a nurse. But House ignored them as he read the tiny blue screen.

_SECOND FLOOR ON CALL ROOM NEAR RADIOLOGY_

House reached out and jabbed the number two, and just in time, because a second later the elevator slowed to a stop.

"Out of the way," he muttered, using his cane to beat himself a path. "Doctor stuff, very important."

The doors opened, and House finally managed to untangle himself from the mess of bodies that crowded the elevator. He made his way down the hallway, mind churning with ideas. Why was Chase in the on call room? Why hadn't he answered his earlier pages? The most obvious answer was that Chase had been busy trying to save someone's life earlier, and was now crashing in the on call room while he recovered from another loss of life. But the idea was somewhat ridiculous, as Chase wasn't naive enough a doctor to need a break after someone died. As an intensivist, it should be second nature.

However, no other ideas came to mind. No other ideas that made sense came to mind, at least. Wild, rabid thoughts about Chase cheating on him were streaking their way across his mind like shooting stars, but it was a crazy idea in the first place. Chase wouldn't have the balls to cheat on him—he was almost frighteningly loyal, to the point of kissing ass.

House knew exactly where the on call room was. He'd been working here way too long.

The door wasn't locked, and he let himself in.

Chase was sitting on one of the lower bunks, in the dark, but the light from the hallway illuminated most of the room. In the light, House could see that Chase's eyes were red and that his tie had been undone and left to hang from his neck. He looked at House, clearly too drained to talk.

House took a step in, and shut the door behind him before prying eyes could see Chase in this state. His mind raced through possibilities, wondering what could set Chase off to lose control like this. It was about ten seconds before he struck gold.

"It's your father, isn't it?" House asked, taking a few more steps into the room.

Chase sighed. "Yeah." His voice was still uneven. "He's dead."

"Thought you hated him?" House asked, unable to resist.

Shaking his head, Chase reached up and ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't. I didn't care about him at all."

"Right," House said, because it was obviously a load of shit. "You're crying because the poor interns are suffering with these starchy sheets. It's a crime, I tell you."

Chase let out a sort of desperate laugh. "I don't know. He's my dad, you know? He was there for a while."

"And then he left you and your mom to die. Yeah, he's dead. So what? He was a selfish prick. Don't waste your time with him," House said, standing in front of Chase. The need for tears was lost on him, and he'd never pictured Chase as a crier. This whole situation was just weird.

"What do you know?" Chase was suddenly glaring at him. "You weren't there. He wasn't a bad father. It... It was my mum."

House was so surprised to hear Chase blame his mother that he was too late to kill the idea before Chase could take off with it.

"She was always so clingy," Chase continued, his voice gaining strength as he latched onto the idea. "He—he just needed to get away from her. She always used to accuse him of cheating on her. Always! She didn't trust him to do anything alone, and he couldn't stand it anymore."

"He probably _was _cheating on her," House pointed out.

"No, he wasn't," Chase insisted, looking away from House to stare past him. "He couldn't have been. She was so nosy, watching him like a hawk, hiring private investigators, interrogating him whenever he came home... It's no wonder he left."

"And who did he move in with?" House asked, his voice going up in volume. "Was it your stepmom, or did he have another girlfriend at the time? He'd slept with a dozen women by the time he left you and your mom."

His jaw clenched, Chase stood up. "You don't know what you're talking about. They were only friends," he insisted, his hands balled into fists as his eyes blazed. "She was just helping him out. She gave him a place to stay for a while so he could get back on his feet—he would _never _cheat on my mum!"

"Are you insane?" House demanded, taking a step forward. "He was having an affair!"

"Shut up!" Chase shouted, a hand coming forward to give House a shove. "Shut up! You don't even know what you're talking about!"

House caught the hand before it could make contact, and he held Chase's wrist in a death grip. "Your father didn't give a rat's ass about you," he said through gritted teeth. He wanted to _strangle_ Chase until he understood. "He left you. To die."

"Let go," Chase said furiously, trying to wrench his hand free. "You have no idea what my father was like. Dammit! Get the hell off of me!"

"Say it," House hissed. "Say that your father left you to die."

"Fuck you," Chase snarled. He gave a vicious tug, and House was forced to let go of Chase lest he fall headfirst into the bunkbed, thus hitting his head on the metal frame.

House caught himself on the frame of the top bunk, almost falling into Chase. Their eyes were inches apart, and House could hear his breathing as loudly as if it were his own. He could hear the muted sounds of the hospital corridor, and his mind flashed with ideas about staying with Chase and working this out, but they fizzled out. He didn't want to deal with this right now. If Chase was looking for someone to give him a hug and a back rub, he'd have to go track down Cameron.

He left Chase standing there, alone, and didn't look back.

oOo

After that little incident, House didn't see Chase for quite some time. He holed up in his office and sent Cameron out to buy him lunch, because he knew that there was no way he was getting another free lunch from Chase after their argument. Wilson came in, still hissing like an angry goose about House ignoring him that morning, and House endured his tirade just so that he could be done with it and not have to be cornered for a third time. When Wilson left, House almost decided to hunt down Chase again, and then he remembered that he probably wasn't wanted. He'd have to give Chase some time to get over his whole daddy issue.

It really did baffle him. He got that Chase had had his father in his life for fifteen or so years, but that had been a long time ago, and the period in between had been spent hating and forgetting. What difference did it make if he was dead? When Rowan had been here three months ago, Chase had avoided him like the plague, and that had been when Rowan was still alive. Now that his old man was dead, Chase should have been singing gospel songs from the rooftops. Hell, if House's dad had died, it would have been the first thing on _his_ list.

And then, as his logical mind always did, he came upon the consequences of Rowan's death in his own life. Most relevant to today was whether or not Chase would be coming home with him tonight—after all, his only other option was the bus. Part of him thought that Chase shouldn't be left alone tonight (and he probably didn't want to be), but then he was reminded of Chase crying. He couldn't deal with a grown man crying all night. He wouldn't. It wasn't anything he had a particular interest in, fuckbuddy or no.

But his musings were interrupted by a page from Foreman—their patient from yesterday was in the hospital, crashing.

With a sigh, House stood up and trekked down to the emergency room. Upon arriving, he saw Foreman and Chase standing over the woman, obviously the patient, and a video screen of the woman's bloody stomach. Chase noticed his presence before House got the chance to open up with a cutting remark.

"Bleeding ulcer," Chase said, glancing at him but not meeting his eyes. "We've got it. She was fine two hours ago."

House raised his eyebrows. "If by 'fine', you mean she had fountains of blood spurting out of every orifice then yeah, I believe you."

Foreman opened his mouth to make a retort, when the patient's alarms started going off.

"I'm guessing those are the celebratory bells," House said dryly as he took a step back, giving Chase and Foreman room to work. They were both searching for the cause, but House spotted it first and didn't have the patience to wait for them to catch up. "Show me the ulcer."

"It's brown. I cauterized it," Chase muttered as he lifted the woman's eyelid and peered at her pupils with his penlight. But all the same, when he drew back, he grabbed the wire and angled it so that the video screen displayed the ulcer.

"Sweep back," House ordered. "Show me the whole stomach."

Chase did so, stopping when House told him to.

"Second ulcer?" Foreman asked, leaning over the gurney to get a better look.

"Not anymore—it perforated," House said, his eyes spotting the bloody mass before the other two could.

Foreman charged away with a swarm of nurses, ready to push the woman into the first OR available so that they could save her from going into septic shock. They left, but Chase stayed behind. The area had gone relatively quiet, and House felt the adrenaline coursing through his body give way to anger.

"She was not fine two hours ago," he said, stepping closer to Chase, who was ripping off his gloves. "She mentioned stomach pain?"

Chase whirled around to face him, looking like an indignant teenager. "Yeah, so I gave her a stronger—"

"You didn't do an exam," House countered, interrupting him because it didn't matter what drugs he'd prescribed. They'd obviously been the wrong ones.

"She just came in for a follow up!" Chase said, folding his arms over his chest. "The results of a pathergy test!"

"Did you listen to her stomach? Check her vitals?" House asked, even though he could tell by the look on Chase's face that he hadn't.

"Maybe if she'd said something about taking ibuprofen, mentioned the rectal bleeding!" Chase protested.

"Yeah," House sneered. "Why didn't she go to med school like you did? Diarrhea! Blood in the stool! These are routine questions—"

"Doctors skip all the time!" Chase finished, cutting him across before he could finish. "It was a minor mistake! I couldn't have known that this was going to happen."

"Mistakes are as serious as the results they cause!" House said furiously, feeling for the second time of the day like he needed to strangle Chase until he understood. "This woman could _die _because you were too lazy to ask simple question!"

"No, she might _die _because I had the bad luck to spill your damn Vicodin pills!" Chase said.

House was livid. "You made a mistake! Deal with it or get out!"

"So you're firing me?" Chase asked, now sounding every bit the moody teenager. "Right, that'll go over real well with the—"

"Look—your dad's dead. Get over it," House said harshly, watching as Chase froze in shock at his words. "Nobody wants to see you act like a hormonal pregnant woman, so get the hell out until you've got some control over yourself!"

Chase was stopped, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes, and then he turned and walked away.

Hopefully, House thought, to go blow off his steam in the racquetball court.


	20. Forever Yours

**Untouchable  
Chapter 20  
**_(Forever Yours)_

Chase's mind was reeling.

That was the only way he could describe it. He wished that he could stop the thoughts in his mind and simply exist. Without thinking, without feeling, just standing and feeling the beating of his heart. Hearing the murmur of voices around him. Being able to look around without seeing faces of an old man with wispy hair and blue eyes, watching him. If he wanted anything in the world, it was that.

He wanted to be alone, but he knew that locking himself into the isolation of an on call room again would only make his mind run faster, too fast to hold back. He needed to be out here with people, because if he was in front of an audience, he would be forced to keep functioning. You couldn't be a doctor and cry in front of patients. It was a basic rule. So he would keep working and seeing patients until he felt like when he stopped, he would be able to control himself.

His mind wandered over to his apartment and he wanted to be home—but not really. There were no comforts in his apartment besides his game system and sweat clothes. But there were old photos and knickknacks and an empty tin of pipe tobacco, and he didn't want to see those at all. The better alternative was House's apartment, where there were no memories of his old life in Australia. But he couldn't look at House without thinking of the upcoming Valentine's Day Benefit and what he was going to have to do, and Chase didn't think that he'd make it through the night without breaking down and confessing everything.

The last, and most desolate option, was to stay here at the hospital for the night. Although, it was looking better with every passing moment.

"Chase!"

He slowly turned and saw Wilson approaching him. Chase had a feeling that this conversation was going to involve House, but he didn't feel like he had the energy to run away. He didn't want to think about House right now, just after they'd shouted at each other (not just once, but twice). It wasn't even fair. But fleeing would do nothing to assuage Wilson's doubts about his relationship with House, so he stayed and with considerable effort, plastered a smile on his face.

"Hi, Wilson," he said, slowing to a stop in the middle of the hallway.

Wilson's smile looked as fake as his own. "Hi, Chase. Can we talk?"

"Yeah," Chase said, folding his arms over his chest.

"Somewhere private?" Wilson asked, his smile fading to reveal a vaguely uncomfortable look.

Chase nodded, gesturing towards a nearby supply closet. It wasn't exactly apropos, but it was close and the handle had a lock on it. Wilson didn't comment as Chase opened the door and held it for him. Inside, it was surprisingly large with plenty of space to move around in, although there were no lights. Chase shut the door with a quiet snick, and then turned to face Wilson. The silence suddenly brought down his exhaustion like a great weight on his shoulders, and he struggled not to fall over a moment. His ears ringing, he made himself focus on Wilson.

"So you're sleeping with House," Wilson said bluntly.

Chase nodded, sighing. "Yeah. What do you care?"

"How long has it been?" Wilson asked, frowning at him.

Summoning energy from the depths of his self-will, Chase thought about it. He shrugged with one shoulder. "Month."

"Why?" Wilson asked, staring at Chase with an unrelenting keenness.

"Does it matter?" Chase said, with a kind of desperate laugh, because it didn't anymore. All that mattered was this fucked-up future that he'd made for himself.

Wilson averted his eyes for a moment, staring off to the side, and then he inhaled and looked Chase in the eye again. "Did Vogler tell you to start sleeping with him?"

"No," Chase said tiredly. He didn't have the energy to put any vehemence behind his words, and they came out flat and listless. "No, I didn't. That's absurd."

Wilson did not look convinced, but from the lack of energy in his voice, that really wasn't surprising. "Really? Because I'm pretty sure that he did."

"Why would he do that?" Chase asked, reaching up and scrubbing his face with his hand. He wanted to be out of here, back doing mindless charting.

"That's what I was hoping you could tell me," Wilson said pointedly.

That was it. He was done being interrogated. "Look," he said, exhaling. "I don't give a damn what you think I'm doing with House. If you've got problems, go tell House about it—you're his best friend. I've got to get back to work."

Wilson's eyes were narrowed. "I don't trust you."

"I don't _care_," Chase said, frustrated.

He was left standing alone in the closet.

oOo

Following their second argument of the day, Chase was yet again nowhere to be found. But this time, House wasn't interested in finding him. He'd tried. Chase was completely off his rocker, and he wasn't going to put up with him while he was in this ridiculous strop of his. When Chase was good and calm they'd work things out, but for now, House was going to forget about him. This meant that, despite the fact that Chase was the one taking care of Kayla, he sent Foreman and Cameron out to deal with her irate brother when she was out of surgery and into post-op.

Wilson came in after a while. Having gotten his lecture out of his system, he was much more relaxed and sat down across from House's desk.

"Heard Chase screwed up," he said casually, watching House fold a paper football.

House glanced up at him, weighing for a minute the possibility that Wilson was attempting to be sneaky, but decided that Wilson was done with the matter for a while. So he shrugged. "Yeah, he did. Forgot to ask routine questions, and now we've got a perforated ulcer on our hands."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "That doesn't sound good. There's going to be a huge lawsuit if she dies."

"Nah," House said, tucking the end of the paper football. "They'll settle. There's not much to argue—Chase _did_ screw up. Play to 21?" He held up the little white football.

Rolling his eyes, Wilson put his hands together like goalposts. "And how's Cameron?"

"Existing," House said, flicking the football into the air—it landed just short of the finger-goalposts.

Wilson picked it up and readied it for his own turn. "You're still punishing her, then?"

House shrugged. "Guess not. She's off with Foreman at the moment, doing what she does best." He held his hands steady until the last possible second, and then jerked them back before Wilson's football could fly over the threshold.

"Hey!" Wilson protested.

"High winds out on the field today," House said innocuously, looking up to the ceiling.

Wilson rolled his eyes and made a goalpost with his hands, knowing that it wasn't worth the effort. "And Vogler?"

"Alive. Unfortunately. I'm beginning to lose my faith in God," House said.

"He still hasn't done anything?" Wilson asked, watching as House's football sailed cleanly through his fingers. "He was out for your blood a month ago."

"Don't worry—I've got my watchdogs out," House said dryly, readying his finger-goalposts.

"Really," Wilson said sardonically, snorting.

House watched him carefully. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Vogler's a lot more tactful that you think. He's not going to short-sheet your bed, House. He's going to go in for the kill." As if accenting his point, Wilson flicked the football and watched calmly as it sailed right between House's index fingers.

"You're saying that I should employ a bodyguard?" House asked, collecting the football without acknowledging Wilson's score.

"No, I'm just warning you. I don't think that Vogler's been sitting on his hands for the last few weeks. He's planning something," Wilson said. He cast a glance around, as if double checking that there were no Volger-shaped shadows lurking in the doorways, and then added, "Everyone's your enemy."

"Even you?" House asked, making a 'hurry up' gesture with his hands.

Wilson quickly made the goalpost with his hands. "Well, it could be. You never know."

House snorted. "Right. Like you'd ever sell me out. You're not the ass-kisser Chase is, but you've still got loyalty issues."

"Loyalty issues?' Wilson asked, raising his eyebrows.

"You still call your mom on her birthday," House said, flicking his football high into the air. "You've got loyalty issues."

"So why isn't Chase-the-ass-kisser on your list of suspects?" Wilson asked.

House stared at him incredulously. "Because he's an ass-kisser. He's as loyal as a hound dog to me—there's no way he'd ever go to Vogler."

"I don't think Chase is necessarily loyal to you," Wilson said, about to flick the football when he noticed that the end was sticking out, about to unfold. "I think that he's loyal to whoever's in charge. Everyone knows that you answer to no one."

"So what's the point of this conversation?" House asked.

"You answer to Vogler now," Wilson said, not looking at him as he tucked in the end of the paper football. "Therefore, there's no reason not to think that Chase might have gotten the same idea."

"I do not answer to Vogler!" House protested. He didn't. He had won the lab coat battle, and Vogler hadn't fired him yet. "And even if I did, I doubt that Chase ran to Vogler. He's had a little crush on—"

Oh, fuck. The game.

Wilson had perked up, staring at House with interest. "What?"

"Nothing," House muttered. Shit. If Chase found out that he'd broken one of the rules of the game, he'd be dead. Well, more accurately, he'd have lost the game. And if he didn't have the game, then there was no way that he'd ever be able to know if Chase was telling the truth. Actually, he probably wouldn't be able to go and patch things up with Chase after today's events if he lost the game.

"Chase had a crush on you?" Wilson asked, looking slightly dumbfounded.

"No," House said immediately. "And if he did, then you didn't hear it from me."

"That's insane," Wilson muttered, forgetting the football and dropping it on House's desk. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't say anything," House insisted. "You're hallucinating."

Wilson didn't even contradict him. He was lost in his thoughts, a faraway look on his face.

"House!" Cameron said, striding in, Foreman closely trailing her. "Kayla's liver's clotting—the sepsis lowered her BP too much."

"They blocked the heptic artery and cut off the blood flow. Shocked the liver—she'll need to get on the transplant list," Foreman said, not sounding happy about it. And with good reason—there was a slim chance that the patient would get listed at all, what with all of her other problems.

House glanced at Wilson, reached over and picked up the paper football, and then blew a raspberry. "Eugh. That means talking to Cuddy. Anyone here want to donate instead?"

Foreman rolled his eyes and Wilson stood up, pushing his chair back.

"I'll talk to you later, House. Thanks for the tip," he said with a grin, provoking a scowl from House.

House let out a long-suffering sigh. "Okay. Which one of you is going with me?"

"Where's Chase?" Cameron asked suddenly.

"His Lamaze class," House said, grabbing his cane. "Thanks for volunteering."

"Seriously—where's Chase?" Foreman asked with a suspicious frown.

"He's having personal problems," House said shortly. "You can bug him when he comes back. Foreman, go patrol for livers—where there's a will, there's a dead guy."

Foreman let out an exasperated sigh, but turned around to leave. House grinned up at Cameron.

oOo

When he finally came out of the supply closet, Chase felt better. His mind had settled, like there was a thick blanket wrapped around it, and he felt strangely cleansed. The first place he went was the bathroom, where he washed his face, and then he pulled out his cell phone and headed outside without a jacket, as it was up in the conference room and he wanted to hang on to this calm feeling as long as he could. Ignoring the biting cold, Chase punched in Heather's number and paced up and down the sidewalk as the phone rang. He didn't feel nervous, but he was impatient to get out of the freezing New Jersey weather.

He counted four rings before Heather's answering machine picked up.

"Hi! This is Heather Chase—I'm not available to pick up the phone at the moment, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. If it's an emergency, you can reach me at 555-2915."

Chase inhaled. "Hi, Heather. It's Robert. I'm sorry for hanging up on you earlier. Um, I wanted to let you know that I can't make it to the funeral—I can't get the time off. Sorry. I appreciate the invitation." He paused and considered adding some form of condolence, but decided against it. "Bye."

And that was it.

He doubted that Heather would call him back, and that was fine with him. His father was dead, and now he could move on. He didn't need to see the body, watch it be lowered into the earth to get closure. Not to mention, other than Heather, he'd be the only family member there, and it would be more than a little awkward to introduce himself. He had the feeling that the conversations would go somewhere along the lines of, "I'm Rowan's estranged son—yes, really—don't feel bad, I don't think he liked to talk about me very much. Sandwich?"

Although, Chase thought as he pulled open the door to the hospital, at least Australia's weather was nice in the winter.

oOo

When he woke up on the day of the Valentine's Day benefit, and even months later, Chase wouldn't remember how he got through that week. Not in the sense that it had been impossible, although it had been, but he really couldn't remember much about it other than the ever-present knot of dread that made it hard to swallow and a few select scenes. He would think that it might have been that he hadn't wanted to remember it at first, but that would be when it hurt too much to look back on that week. Later, he would come to the conclusion that it was merely the fact that he'd simply been too terrified to absorb anything but the most important moments of the week. Everything else was blurred.

He remembered making up with House after their fight. It hadn't been on Saturday. They hadn't even looked at each other the rest of Saturday, and Chase had spent the night in an on call room, ignoring the snoring intern who had occupied the bunk below him. He had woken the next morning to a rather stiff back, hair that stuck up on one side no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it, and day-old clothes.

A shower had taken care of the former two, and a pair of scrubs (with a long-sleeved shirt, he remembered, because the hospital had been freezing) had replaced his clothes from the day before. Chase had grabbed a bagel from the cafeteria before heading up the conference room. At the time, he'd thought it just supremely bad luck that, when he got there, no one but House had already arrived. It wouldn't come to him for a few days later that House had purposely planned this.

"Good morning," House had said pleasantly from where he stood at the coffee pot.

Chase had blinked. "Good morning."

House had turned away from the sink to stare at Chase calmly. "Your dad's dead."

The words had punched him in the gut, and Chase hadn't been able to breathe for a minute. He had swallowed, fighting back the tide of emotion that had swelled in his chest. "I don't care," he had forced himself to say, but the words had come out choked. Desperately, he'd tried not to lose it in front of House, but it had felt like a losing battle under those piercing blue eyes.

"Uh-huh," House had said with a faint smirk. He'd looked away, giving Chase a few seconds to collect himself.

Chase had taken several deep breaths, waited until his throat no longer felt constricted, and then he'd dared to speak. "That wasn't fair."

"You're in no condition to work," House had said while pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You'll end up crying over centrifuges like all the other messed up people here. Go home."

The idea had sounded nice for all of a second. Then Chase had remembered all of the things that were in his apartment, and he'd shook his head. "No, I'm good. I'll be fine. Really."

"Your father didn't even want to tell you that he was dying," House had said. "And now he's dead, and you'll never have to chance to see him again. Not even if you wanted to."

Chase had pressed his fingers into his eyes, working hard to dam up the waves that threatened to crash over his head. He'd counted to three in his head, taking deep breaths and pushing the memories of his father's last visit out of his mind. "Stop it," he'd muttered, not opening his eyes. "I'd be fine if you would stop talking about him."

"Go home," House had repeated.

Chase had pulled his fingers back, looking up to House with a newfound stubbornness. "No. Queen to D4. I'm not going home."

House had opened his mouth, and then he'd stopped. He'd frowned, and then realization had seemed to dawn. "You don't want to stay here," he'd said slowly. "You just don't want to go home. You big baby." But as he had been speaking, he'd pulled out a key ring. His fingers had worked, doing something Chase hadn't been able to see, and then suddenly, something had come flying at him.

Chase had barely caught it. He'd unfolded his palm to discover that House had thrown him a key.

"What's this?"

He'd looked up in time to see House grab his coffee mug and begin walking towards his office. "Key to my place. Go cry your heart out in private."

And that had been that. House had disappeared into his office, wouldn't listen to him when Chase came in protesting, and had eventually started throwing pencils at him until he'd left. So he'd went to House's place and—well, actually, most of the day had passed in a blur. He remembered taking a shower, where he'd ended up sitting on the floor of the shower like he had so many weeks ago, when he'd first learned that his father was dying. Then he remembered going to sleep, and not waking up until House had rather rudely shoved him and muttered something about bed hogs.

So his father was dead. This still rung as a strange sentence to him, but after that day, he felt a lot better about the whole thing after that day. He had ended up getting a phone call from Heather the following morning, but House had reached the cell phone before Chase and proceeded to tell her—in a rather vulgar manner—to leave Chase alone. When he'd hung up, Chase had wordlessly accepted his cell phone back and, after retreating into the kitchen, asked if House wanted scrambled eggs. Later, during an angioplasty, he'd reflected on this and decided that having a protective House was much better than a disinterested House. Wilson, however, probably would have preferred it the other way around.

Over that week, Wilson had confronted him many times. It had been almost unnerving the way he seemed to turn up every time Chase had a moment to pause and think. The conversations had been tiresome, but he hadn't been able to find it in himself to be mad at Wilson for it. All it had made him feel was more guilty. Wilson had only been trying to protect his friend. House hadn't known that, though. He clearly remembered the knot in his stomach balling tighter and tighter, making it more difficult to breathe each time he saw House telling Wilson off.

"Look, I'm sorry," he'd been saying. "I can't tell you. I wish I could."

"I want you to leave him alone," Wilson had said, his voice slow with an obvious fury. "Whatever you're going to do to him, he doesn't deserve it."

Chase had run a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Wilson, it's going to kill me to do this. You have no idea. But I can't say no."

"Why not?" Wilson had demanded. "Say no. If you really 'love' him, then you won't do this to him."

"You don't know what you're saying," Chase had said, shaking his head.

"I know very well what I'm saying, thank you. Vogler can't _make_ you do anything." Wilson had taken a step towards him, and irrationally, Chase's first thought had been that Wilson was going to grab him and shake his shoulders. He'd certainly looked angry enough.

But Wilson hadn't.

"You'd be surprised what he can make you do," Chase had said with a slight laugh, because if he hadn't laughed, he might have started screaming from frustration. "He got you out of the way so that I'd have an easier time with House. Didn't you realize? He sent you to Ohio."

"You said that Vogler didn't tell you to start sleeping with House," Wilson had said triumphantly.

"He didn't," Chase had said. "He told me to get close to House. That's all."

"Why?" Wilson had asked, with his eyes watching Chase like a hawk. He had reached out, maybe to grab Chase by the arm and maybe just to throw an exasperated hand up in the air, but Chase had never found out. A cane had come from out of nowhere and whacked Wilson's arm out of the way.

Wilson had sworn loudly, clutching his arm.

House had not looked happy. "What are you doing?"

"We were just talking," Chase had said quickly.

But House hadn't been listening to him. He'd been watching Wilson. "He's not working for Vogler, I told you."

Wilson had glared. "House, I'm trying to help you."

"I don't need help." House had glanced at Chase. "And neither does Chase."

It was clear in his mind, still, how that sickening guilt had rose in his throat. "House, it's really not a—" he'd tried to say, but House hadn't been hearing it.

"Why do you think Vogler sent me to that conference?" Wilson had asked.

Chase's jaw had dropped, and it was then that the stupidity of his words earlier had smacked him in the face. But he'd had to hold his outrage in, because he couldn't protest in front of House.

"Because you're an idiot?" House had suggested.

"No! It was so that Chase could—never mind. House, I'm not being paranoid here. You've got to believe me."

But this time, like all the others, Wilson's pleas had fallen on deaf ears. He wasn't the only one that House wasn't listening to, though. Cuddy wasn't nearly as forward or insistent as Wilson had been (which was better, for her, but very bad for Chase). She had only dropped hints to House, and called Chase into her office twice to talk to him. And she had done it during House's clinic duty, so that there was less of a chance of him finding out. Both of these meetings were still vivid in Chase's mind.

In the first meeting, Cuddy had been very sympathetic. "I'm only here to help," had been the phrase that she'd used repeatedly. Chase had sat there, his eyes darting to the clock every other minute, and had refused to tell her what was going on time and time again. He knew that it would be pointless to tell her, and she wouldn't understand anyway. She'd want to know why he wasn't standing up to Vogler, why his job was worth more than his relationship with House, how he'd let it spin this far out of control… And those were all questions that Chase didn't want to answer. So he dodged and sidetracked, and eventually flat out told her that she was wasting her time.

Cuddy had let him go, looking exasperated. Chase knew that he'd done the right thing by not telling her, but he remembered feeling as if he were trying to build a break-wall in the middle of a hurricane.

The second time she'd had him in her office, she had been much more aggressive. Cuddy had wasted no time with reassurances and wheedling, but instead had begun demanding to know. She told Chase that even if she wouldn't be able to do anything about it, she still knew House better than he did and would be able to deal with the repercussions of it better if she knew what was going to happen. Chase had been tempted by this offer. He knew that once this whole thing was over, House was not going to be a very happy person. He'd probably be smarting and furious, which generally meant bad things for Cuddy. But he refused in the end, standing on the lone principal that there still might be a way out of this.

He'd searched. Chase had spent more time searching for a solution than he'd spent pouring over House's files—actually, he had developed the tendency to think about that a lot when he was supposed to have been studying House's files. Whenever he'd gotten time alone and pulled out House's file to hunt for information, his mind had almost automatically relocated to searching for something that would get him out of this.

To no avail. But at that point, he had been stubbornly refusing to give up. Something in his mind had still been frantically screaming that he was missing something, some vital, in-his-face obvious clue that would solve everything. All he'd had to do was find it. Hours after the lights had been shut off and House had fallen asleep, Chase had lain there, convinced that somehow, if he would just think a little harder, it would come to him.

But it never had. It still hadn't.

It hadn't been until Sunday night that he'd given up and admitted to himself that there was simply no way out of this mess, and there wouldn't be, no matter how hard he thought or how long he procrastinated. And with that realization heavy in his mind, Chase had tried to make the most of his last night with House.

"House…"

"Oh, boy. This is going to be fun."

"You know that—you know it's been over a month since we started sleeping together, right?"

"What, you wanted an anniversary present?"

"Shut up and let me talk."

"Will you punish me if I don't?"

"I just want you to know that the last four weeks have been really great. I… I wouldn't trade it for the world."

"It's not going to last."

"Probably not. But that's okay with me."

"That is so messed up. You're like a psychologist's wet dream."

"Yeah, and you're his nightmare."

"So why the speech?"

"What?"

"Why are we suddenly spouting off Hallmark phrases? Bee in your bonnet?"

"People… They do stupid things. They say things that they don't mean. I just want you to know that I _do_ mean this, even if this all goes south later."

"Which it will."

"Inevitably."

That had been his last desperate attempt. He'd gotten the words out and just hoped like hell that after tomorrow night, House would remember them. Because it had seemed like all he could do was hope—it still did. He'd give anything to keep this… this whatever-it-was with House.

Chase could hardly believe that just last month, he'd been vomiting over the toilet bowl as he thought of having sex with House. But one thing had led to another, and suddenly everything had changed. Now he was practically living with the man, bringing him coffee and lunch, paying for dinner, sleeping in his bed… And though he'd never admit it, when he was away from House for too long, there was part of him that felt hollow and stolen, and ached to see him again. He had the sneaking suspicion that this meant that he was pathetically, somewhat helplessly in love with House, but didn't dwell on it too long. There wasn't a point.

The funny thing was, weeks ago, Chase probably would have gotten at least a little bit of pleasure out of this. He would have felt guilty as hell, yes, but to get revenge on House after almost a year of abuse would have felt quite nice. But now he felt like tonight would be probably the cruelest thing he'd ever done to someone, and it was going to kill him to do it. It just wasn't enough. A month with House wasn't nearly enough time to spend with him. He wanted months, years more to spend with House. Every moment with him was like another breath of fresh air, and he didn't think that he could handle losing him.

Of course, he would have to handle it. And it was his own fault.

Chase sighed and shifted slightly. House wasn't awake yet, though would have to be soon if they were going to be on time. But this would be the last time that they'd wake up together, and Chase wanted to savor it. He could hear the even, steady breathing beside him and wondered what House dreamed about. If he dreamed at all.

House made a funny sort of noise, groaning and mumbling something at the same time, and Chase suddenly felt something warm and heavy against his back. He stiffened for a second, and then realized that it must be House's arm, and he slowly relaxed.

Jesus, he was going to miss this.

And then he sat straight up in bed, his mouth open and adrenaline rushing through his body in a pure moment of eureka. He knew how to get out of this. He knew how to please Vogler and still keep House. It was—if he could—holy shit. Yes. Yes, yes, it might work. Everything was going to be okay.

"Thank god…" he breathed, scarcely able to think anything else. The relief that was sweeping him was so powerful that Chase could barely breathe.

"Wassamter?" House mumbled, apparently stirred from sleep.

Chase blinked, suddenly remembering where he was.

"Nothing," he said, looking down at House with a slight grin. He laid back down slowly, unable to wipe the smile from his face. "Nothing at all. Everything's perfect."

And it would be.


	21. Everybody's Fool

**Untouchable  
Chapter 21  
**_(Everybody's Fool)_

It had come.

Chase could scarcely believe that this was actually happening. He felt faintly dizzy, and was starting to think that, as House had suggested after he'd put his tie on the wrong way for the fifth time, Valium might have been a good idea after all. Despite the fact that the champagne might have done something to ease his nerves, he couldn't drink anything because the mere thought of it made him nauseous. So he subtly tipped a champagne glass into a plant when there was a toast to the new, discounted clinic in the beginning, and passed up all the refreshments he was offered afterwards. He was very thankful that no one had decided to splurge on a snack buffet.

The fact that he and House had come in together had gone unnoticed by everyone except Wilson, who had apparently been watching the doors. But when Chase caught his eye, he quickly turned to the right and asked the plant he was standing next to how it was doing this evening.

Chase didn't stick with House for too long. It turned out that House had a love for cigars, which he did not share. So while House planted himself in a chair next to a several other people Chase had never seen before, Chase went off to mingle and seek out a decent conversation. The fact that he was very obviously foreign made it easy to start a conversation, but it also made it very repetitive. Everyone wanted to know the same things: where he was from, why he had moved to the States, how it was different from Australia, and if it was strange to drive on the right side of the road. The order of which occasionally varied.

Volger seemed to be omnipresent, weaving into Chase's line of sight more than he would have though physically possible. He tried to shake it off as nerves, but he hated the feeling of being watched, of Vogler knowing what was going to happen and waiting for it like. But Chase wasn't ready yet. He wanted to wait a while longer, because he wasn't ready to let this go. The bomb was ready to explode, but he could wait a while before pulling the pin.

And so he was procrastinating. It was very easy to do.

Chase found himself talking to a woman named Cathie—a paramedic who had jumped at the opportunity to have an evening away from her children. She was nice enough, although she talked a little too fast and he found it hard to absorb anything that she really said. She was single, and even though Chase knew that the popular rumor was still that he had a girlfriend, he was smart enough to know that asking her anything too personal would result in even more problems than he already had.

When Cathie's cell phone rang, Chase had excused himself and left to go find House. He didn't get very far.

"Dr. Chase!" Cuddy's voice had called.

Unwillingly, Chase stopped and waited for her to come up to him. "Dr. Cuddy," he said with a slight nod. "You look very nice tonight."

"As do you," Cuddy said shortly. She stopped, looked him up and down, and then met his eyes. "It's tonight, isn't it?"

Chase couldn't see the harm in her knowing this. "Yes."

"I can tell," Cuddy said. "You look like a nervous wreck."

"I have a plan," Chase said, somewhat hopeful that this would redeem him.

"To stop this?" Cuddy asked sharply, but her eyes showed a reluctant hope.

He dropped his gaze, staring at the floor next to her. "Not exactly. But with any luck, it'll do some damage control."

Cuddy sighed and Chase looked up, feeling guilty for the umpteenth time. She was pinching the bridge of her nose. "Okay," she said, opening her eyes and dropping her hand. "Do what you have to. I'll be ready."

Chase opened his mouth to say something in apology, but Cuddy had already turned around and walked away. Before anyone else could notice, Chase shut his mouth and looked around the room until he found House. Wilson had joined the table, but he didn't look like he was lecturing House the way that he'd been doing all week. He was laughing about something, and House's hands were moving animatedly, the cigar bouncing to the left and right between two of his fingers. Wilson, still grinning, leaned in and said something. House shook his head, taking a quick draw from the cigar, and then sat back and used it to point at Wilson. Wilson's jaw dropped and he protested.

For a second, Chase wanted to die rather than do this to House.

Then Vogler came into view, raising his eyebrows.

Now?

Right now?

Oh, no. No, it was too soon. He still had the rest of the night. He didn't feel ready. The words had left his head, hiding under rocks and in dark crevices, and he couldn't think of what to do. He couldn't talk right now, not when his mouth felt dry and his knees trembled as if they were about to give way any moment. It wouldn't work. There was no way he'd ever be able to fool Vogler feeling like this.

But he didn't have a choice. Vogler's expression was impatient.

He nodded jerkily, and then looked over to House. Valium really would have been a good idea.

Chase swallowed and walked over to where House sat, sitting down in the chair next to him. He registered blankly that there were five people at the table, two of whom he knew. The other three looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place their faces. That could have been from nerves, though.

"You drunk yet?" House asked, snapping a finger in front of Chase's eyes.

"No," Chase said, batting House's hand away. Hearing his own voice did him a little bit of good, but he was afraid that once he got started, he wouldn't be able to stop. "Are you?"

House grinned. "Test my reflexes."

He could feel Vogler's gaze boring into the back of his head, but didn't dare turn around to look.

"I'm sure you're fine," Chase said dryly.

Wilson was watching him suspiciously.

Chase sucked in a breath. "Queen to A1," he said, too quietly for anyone but House to have heard.

"That's—" House started to say, but Chase cut him off.

"Did you know," he said to the other three people at the table, "that the overuse of narcotics causes erectile dysfunction?"

They stared at him, obviously not quite sure what to make of this pronouncement.

"It makes it very painful and slow, and nothing lasts long enough for it to be worth it," Chase continued. The words were suddenly coming to him, bubbling up to the surface from out of nowhere. "Makes it very hard to have a good time. And if you've got a bum leg, it pretty much means you've got one position and your partner's got to work around you. You can imagine how cumbersome it would get, doing all the work and only getting a thirty-second payback."

Wilson was staring at him. "What the hell are—"

"So as much fun as a pity-fuck might be, it just isn't the same. And if a beautiful, single woman were to show up at your apartment in need of comfort… It would only be right to make her feel better, right? And the best part is that no one would ever suspect, because no one else knows that the poor cripple can't get it up."

House had gone a funny shade of white, but Chase didn't seem to be able to stop himself.

"But it made it harder to go back. She was so hot and so good. And it was never the same, not ever. I hated it. You have no idea how much I hated it, night after night, being forced to be with you when I could be having someone hot like Cameron. You and your leg and the s—"

"Shut up."

House's voice was like a slap in the face.

The last few minutes bounced around his head, replaying and echoing and reverberating for him to hear. It felt unreal. He couldn't have just said that, there was no way that he had. The chess move was wrong. House was supposed to have stopped him right when he started speaking, he was supposed to have figured it out in time to stop those words from pouring from his mouth--

But he hadn't. House hadn't figured it out in time, and now it was over.

"Excuse me," he muttered, standing up. And then he made for the door.

oOo

The silence that followed Chase's departure was short-lived.

"Well, that was interesting," Harry remarked, looking from House to Wilson in slight confusion. His grin faded slightly as he seemed to realize that something significant had just happened, and he stood up. "Keegan, Max—drinks?"

Mumbling quick agreements, the other two men left their chairs and followed Harry to the nurse's-station-gone-bar.

Wilson turned to House.

"You okay?" he asked hesitantly, wondering if he should reach out and touch House. He was staring at the table fixedly.

But then House shook his head. He looked like he was about to vomit.

"House?" Wilson prodded, feeling a little alarmed.

"He didn't mean it," House muttered. The color was slowly returning to his face.

"You mean he didn't cheat on you?" Wilson asked. His brain was whirling, but he refused to start sorting through his emotions until he'd gotten this out of House. "You don't know that. How could you—"

"The move was impossible," House said, breaking his gaze on the table and turning to look at Wilson. "He didn't mean it. Any of it."

Wilson had seen House like this before. When he'd woken up and found out what Stacy had done, House had been angry. Throwing things, shouting-at-the-top-of-his-lungs angry. But when the initial fire had passed, he had fallen silent and hadn't said a word more than necessary for weeks. That was how House looked. His eyes were blank and his hands were still, and even though the color had returned to his face, House still looked shaken. He was trying to right his little world and recover from the paradigm shift, and he was having a hard time doing it.

Abruptly, House stood up.

"I'm going home," he announced. Then he grabbed his cane and began walking towards the door.

"House!" Wilson said loudly, standing up with the intent of going after him. But he stopped himself as it occurred to him that there was nothing that he could really do to help. House wouldn't want to talk, and short of putting House on an impromptu suicide watch, Wilson wouldn't be able to get within twenty feet of House without being blasted. So he sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck and turned around.

Cuddy stood before him.

"Hey," he said, lowering his arm.

"What happened?" Cuddy asked, looking past Wilson to catch a glimpse of House. "What did Chase do?"

"He…" Wilson trailed off, trying to find the right words to describe it. "He just said some things. About House. Said that he'd cheated on him because House wasn't good enough."

Cuddy's eyes widened. "Where is he?"

"He just left," Wilson said.

"No, not House," Cuddy said with the wave of her hand. "Chase. Where did he go?"

"He left, too," Wilson sighed, glancing over his shoulder to look at the doors. "He looked pretty upset."

"He better have," Cuddy said grimly.

From behind her, Wilson could see Vogler walking towards them. He tried not to wince.

"Vogler," he muttered. "Get ready."

"Coming over to survey his handiwork," Cuddy murmured, closing her eyes. "Great."

Wilson suddenly wished that he'd gone after House.

"Good evening," Vogler said as he came up to them.

Cuddy turned around to face him, and Wilson tensed.

Vogler smiled at them. "I just saw Dr. House leave in a hurry. Is everything okay?"

Anger rose up in Wilson. Vogler knew perfectly well why House had left; he'd planned the whole thing. He had manipulated Chase, set the date, sat back and waited for everything to play out. And now he was going to stand there and act like he hadn't just orchestrated one of the hardest blows House had received in five years? Wilson wanted to punch him, punch right through that toothy smile and beat him to a bloody pulp until he admitted what he'd done. He wanted to hear the confession right from Vogler's mouth and he—

Wilson stopped himself, realizing that his hands were balled into fists and that he'd been seconds away from losing control and actually pummeling Vogler.

"Everything's fine," Cuddy said smoothly, still facing Vogler instead of Wilson. "His leg was bothering him, and Wilson advised him to go home before it got worse."

Vogler nodded. "What a pity. He looked like he was enjoying himself, too."

"A pity," Wilson agreed, the words feeling dry and flimsy off of his tongue. It wasn't nearly what he wanted to say to Vogler.

Cuddy nodded silently, slowly stopping as the quiet persisted. Wilson tried not to fidget, wanting badly to be away from Vogler and his stare. He wondered if Volger suspected that he'd known about this plan for over a week, now. How could he possibly know that? Unless Chase had gone running to Volger to complain that Wilson had been bothering him, there was no way it could have ever gotten back to Vogler.

Chase might have done that, though. Wilson wasn't quite sure what the situation between him and Vogler was like.

"Well," Vogler said at last. "I've got to be going. Tell Dr. House that I hope he feels better."

"Of course," Cuddy said, her head bobbing up and down slightly. As soon as he was safely away, her shoulders slumped.

Wilson put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It'll work out," he told her. "Give it time. Things will smooth over."

Cuddy turned around, and Wilson let his hand fall away. She looked up at him and sighed, giving him a small smile that was more honest than any he'd seen her give tonight. "I know."

"I'm going to get something to drink," Wilson said hesitantly. "Do you want something?"

Shaking her head, Cuddy brushed hair out of her eyes and squared her shoulders. "No, I'm going to go back to the benefit. Thanks, though. Try not to worry about House the whole night—we'll deal with both him and Chase tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Wilson agreed. Tomorrow sounded like an excellent idea.

"Okay," Cuddy repeated, inhaling. She turned around and walked away, and within moments, Wilson had lost track of her in the shifting crowd. He reached up and scrubbed his face, mentally counting to three, and then dropped his hand and made his way over to the bar.

The alcohol did a little for his nerves. He had gone for one of the delicate, bubbling champagne glasses first, and after finishing it off in less than a minute, decided that his time would be better spent sipping on a dry wine. He stood there alone, simply enjoying the background noise of the conversations that danced about the room, listening to the ebb and flow of chatter. It was soothing and strangely hypnotic at the same time, and the dizzy thought that the wine might be putting him to sleep cropped up in his mind more than once.

His thoughts didn't go in one particular direction. They felt like shattered crystal that flew in a thousand directions, impossible to find and hold on to. They were unremarkable and continuous, streaming through his mind with an importance that was almost secondary to what he was hearing. It wasn't until someone tapped him on the shoulder that he was jolted out of his stupor.

"What—oh, hi there Cameron." Wilson mustered up an apologetic grin. "Sorry. I was daydreaming."

"Did you hear what they're saying?" Cameron asked, almost breathlessly.

Slowly, Wilson shook his head. "No. What are they saying? Is it about House?"

"They're saying that—" Cameron faltered for a second. "—that House and Chase have been sleeping together. They just had a fight."

"What?" Wilson said, staring at her dumbly. It took him nearly twenty seconds to remember Harry, Keegan and Max, who had been sitting at the table when Chase had said his piece. "Oh. Uh…"

"Is it true?" Cameron asked earnestly, her eyes searching his face.

Wilson glanced around, hoping that someone would swoop down and save him from answering the question. Unfortunately, no one did.

oOo

House didn't have a plan. All he knew was that Chase was inside that room, and when he came out, he was going to get it. What 'it' would entail hadn't yet occurred to him, but that didn't matter very much. Acting on impulse also seemed like a fine idea. He'd spent last night with a thousand scenarios flying through his mind, making such a cinema production out of the whole thing that he'd been unable to sleep. He wanted to do them all, make Chase hurt in every way possible—but then again, part of him didn't want to do anything at all. It was a very quiet, small part of him, though, so it had gone ignored through to this point.

Chase was in Vogler's office.

House wondered how many times he'd been in there. When had he gone to Vogler for the very first time? Had it been right away? But it couldn't have been. House hadn't picked up on the fact that someone on his team was working for Vogler until Vogler himself had confronted him over the bulimic woman. And this, of course, meant that Chase had been working for Vogler long before they'd started having sex. The obvious conclusion was that Chase had been forced into having sex with him—but if he had been, then he was a damned good actor. House had never once been suspicious, that he could remember. All his aggression had been focused on Cameron.

Damn Chase. Why the hell had he gone to Vogler in the first place? And what had possessed him to go along with whatever crazy orders had involved sleeping with his boss? Why hadn't Chase just said _no?_

The thought of the whole situation got the fury running through his veins again. He tightened his grip on his cane, staring at the door as if he would see through it and find out what Chase was doing in there. House hoped that he was crying. He hoped that Chase was in pain and hadn't been able to sleep last night. He hoped that the thought of eating made him feel sick, that he felt like he had been stripped down to the very core and exposed to the world. He hoped that Chase felt lonely. Tired. Incomplete.

Because if Chase didn't care at all, then House didn't think that he'd be able to handle it.

Then the doorknob twisted, and House tensed.

Chase came out slowly. His eyes held no telltale signs of crying, and his shoulders were tense. House was silent as he waited for Chase to notice him. He watched as Chase shut the door carefully, paused and stared at the silvery letters on it, and then sighed. Chase turned around.

His eyes widened. "House—"

Without warning, rage exploded in House's mind and he lost control.

Chase went sprawling, hitting the wall and slumping to the ground like a ragdoll. A passing nurse stopped, but House stepped forward and grabbed Chase by the upper arm.

"Get up," he said roughly, half-pulling Chase back into a standing position.

Chase stumbled forward dizzily, eyes unfocused, and House yanked him towards the empty room a few feet down the hallway. Halfway there, Chase seemed to regain his senses and started walking in a somewhat straight line. Heart still pounding with fury, House shoved him into the room, which made Chase trip.

"It's not what you think," Chase mumbled as House slammed the door.

House turned around and saw Chase sitting on the empty bed with his hand pressed to his temple, staring down at the ground. "_It's not what I think_," he mocked in a high voice. "The hell it isn't. You've been working for Vogler this whole time."

"Well, yeah, that part's true," Chase said, looking up at House. "But—"

"And he told you to start having sex with me," House pressed. His leg gave a sharp throb of pain, and he began pacing furiously.

"Not exactly," Chase muttered.

House stopped for a second. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Chase closed his eyes. "He just… He told me to get close to you. Sex was easier than…"

The wave of anger that rolled into him was so powerful that House nearly beat Chase across the head with his cane.

"I'm sorry," Chase said desperately, opening his eyes. "Really. I didn't know—"

"And he told you to humiliate me," House interrupted flatly.

"Yes," Chase whispered.

"So you decided to cheat on me," House continued.

"No!" Chase said loudly, jumping to his feet. He stopped and suddenly looked like he was going to be sick from the sudden movement, and then regained control. "I didn't—I would never! Didn't you get my message? I tried—I tried to tell you that it wasn't real. With the chess move!"

"I'm not an idiot," House snapped. "Of course I got that. But if I asked Cameron what the two of you have been up to for the last few weeks, I bet she'd have some interesting things to say."

"No, she wouldn't! We've never slept together," Chase insisted, but House wasn't listening.

"And I bet you were the one who had my file all along," he said, leaning into his cane more heavily as he rounded the room again. "Which must have been how Cuddy found out, and she told Wilson, who tried to tell me…" Stupid, stupid, stupid. If only he'd listened to Wilson. "And Cameron's been innocent this whole time!"

"I tried to tell you!" Chase protested. "I told you that it could be someone else!"

"Well, you neglected to manage that it could have been _you!_" House shouted, stopping his pacing to turn on Chase.

"Oh, yeah, _that_ would have been an interesting conversation," Chase said. "Gee, House, I've been working for Vogler all this time! It's me that you should be punishing, not Cameron!"

"You should have told me," House said in a low voice.

Chase laughed. "Why? You wouldn't have helped. You would have kicked me to the curb, and then I'd be without you and without a job."

"Well, now you've got your precious job," House sneered.

"House—please, don't," Chase said, his tone suddenly pleading. "I didn't want to do it. I just didn't know what to do anymore. What would you have done?"

"Said no?" House suggested.

But Chase shook his head—and then he looked queasy again, and stopped. "I couldn't. You don't understand. If I had said no, he would have done worse than fire me. He would have… He'd have fired you, too. He'd have gotten rid of the whole department."

"And he's probably going to fire me now," House said sharply. "All you did was put it off a few weeks!"

"Don't you get it?" Chase asked, staring at House with something akin to desperation. "These last few weeks have been the best of my entire _life_."

House made a face. "Aw… Does the little Aussie wuv me?"

"So what if I do?" Chase demanded.

"Then you've got a funny way of showing it," House snorted, and then he went back to his pacing.

"I was in over my head. Who was going to help me?" Chase asked.

House stumbled for a minute, realizing that Chase had a small point. But then he blew past it. "You shouldn't have gone to Vogler in the first place."

"I know that!" Chase said, looking frustrated. "I know I shouldn't have, and it was a dumb mistake. But I couldn't do anything about it! Once I was in, I couldn't get out."

"You could have found a way," House said, scowling.

"Yeah?" Chase asked, folding his arms over his chest. "How?"

"I don't know—I'm not the one who's been in cahoots with Vogler for the last two months," House said impatiently. "You screwed yourself over. There's nothing more to it."

"House, I don't know what else to tell you. If I could take it back, I _would!_" Chase said desperately. His voice almost cracked with the effort.

"But you can't," House said flatly.

Beat.

Chase opened his mouth.

House raised his eyebrows, ready to hear his next excuse.

"No," Chase said quietly, his shoulders sagging. "No, I can't."

House nodded. Through, he turned around and began heading towards the door.

"Don't leave," Chase said from behind him, and for whatever reason, House stopped.

He faced Chase. "What?"

Chase looked caught, his mouth open with no words coming out.

"I thought so," House said shortly, and then he made for the door.

But a hand grabbed his forearm, the one holding his cane, and he was forced to stop. Chase swallowed, looking determined. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I never wanted… Just tell me what I have to do for you to forgive me. Please."

"Dropping dead would do it," House spat, wrenching his arm free. He yanked the door open, and was about to take a step forward when he realized that there was a person in the way. And not just any person, but Edward Vogler, with dancing eyes and an expression like ice. Involuntarily, House took a step back.

"Well, this was an interesting conversation," Vogler said as he breezed into the room.

Chase had gone white. House felt like someone had taken his insides and twisted them into a knot.

"Don't worry," House said, mustering up some venom in his voice. "I'm done with him."

Vogler stopped in front of Chase. "I don't think that I have any use for him, either."

Chase's eyes widened.

"Dr. Chase, I expect your resignation on my desk in the next two hours. You don't seem to have any purpose in this hospital anymore," Vogler said, his tone pleasant. "Good day, Dr. House."


	22. The Boy Who Destroyed the World

**Untouchable  
Chapter 22  
**_(The Boy Who Destroyed the World)_

So Chase had been fired.

House still couldn't quite believe it. That wasn't to say that he was feeling remorseful or guilty about it—he felt nothing short of pleasure at the fact that Chase would never step foot in this hospital again. But the logistics of it all were still spinning through his head. Vogler had overheard their conversation and oddly enough, had chosen to believe that Chase was no longer useful to him. House wasn't sure why. Chase obviously did his bidding, no matter how much it supposedly pained him. Now Vogler was without a spy and had no chance in hell of winning over Cameron or Foreman… So what was he going to do now?

Obviously, Vogler was going to have to seek out some other means of keeping tabs on him.

House suddenly remembered Brenda. He hadn't been on his email in days, but he doubted that it contained anything that he needed to know or didn't know already. He made a mental note to tell Brenda that he didn't need her anymore as Vogler's big plan had been unveiled and had promptly fallen flat on its face, and it had turned out that Cameron really had been innocent all along. For that, he did feel some guilt. Just a little. It had been a perfectly logical conclusion. There had been no reason to think that it was Chase working for Vogler, not Cameron. After all, Vogler had told him that he couldn't fire Cameron.

Had that been a ploy? Had Vogler planned it from the very beginning, to throw off his suspicions? House wondered what Vogler would have told him if he'd said that he wanted to fire Foreman. _Probably that I wasn't allowed to_, he thought bitterly. Of course. And he'd fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. How could he have missed it? There had been signs along the way. Chase couldn't have been that good of an actor; he left a mess somewhere along the way. House thought back, running through dozens and dozens of conversations and meetings and naughty R-rated scenes, but he was coming up blank. One would think that after being in a relationship for near—

Then it hit him. The whole damn thing had been the mistake.

Chase had obviously invented the Dare Chess game and came up with that story about the crush to entice him. He'd played right into House's weaknesses—competition and arrogance—and he'd done a bang-up job of it, too. House should have seen from the start, with Chase's ambiguous answer of, "This is the only way I could think of to get you interested. If this is what it takes to get what I want, then I'll do it." Chase had calmly stood back and let him draw his own so-called brilliant conclusions about it, and he'd been so wrapped up in his delight that he hadn't seen reason. House had never thought that Chase was capable of being so manipulative.

Manipulative. Out of all his ducklings, House would have thought Chase the least able to play people. Foreman would have taken some perverse glee out of the chance to publicly humiliate his boss, and Cameron, although moralistic and indecisive, could be catty enough in her own way. Chase was just sort of hopeless at everything, from social tact to dressing himself. But, though it killed him to admit it, Wilson had been right about Chase; he'd obviously sided with the highest bidder. House just hadn't been thinking properly at the time, which was clearly Chase's fault, and he'd convinced himself that Chase could only be loyal to him. Of all the stupid things…

This was why he didn't do relationships. They never ended well. He'd taken the offer for free sex and run with it, run farther than he'd ever intended to. Things had just happened so fast. Everything had been fine until the car wreck, and he'd decided to mess with Chase's head by giving him rides home. That had been where Chase had gone from a simple fuckbuddy to… To something more important. Maybe Vogler had somehow orchestrated the car crash. Hell, maybe Chase had orchestrated the car crash. He _was_ the one who'd suggested that they go out to the bar for drinks after work. Chase might have known that he'd be hurt, not permanently but bad enough to make himself rather pitiful for a few weeks, and figured that it would be a way to pull on House's heartstrings. And he must have paid—

House stopped, realizing how ridiculous this train of thought was. He was being paranoid. And besides that, he thought grudgingly, Chase had to have known that pity was not the way to go when it came to winning his boss's heart.

So the crash hadn't been orchestrated. But it had sure been sheer dumb luck on Chase's part.

Although it was possible that Chase hadn't been lying this whole time. Maybe he really had developed a little crush as time went on. That, of course, would mean that everything Chase had said this morning had been true, that he really was sorry for it all.

This didn't change the fact that he'd betrayed House. Or that he had been fired. Even if House had, in a temporary leave of sanity, forgiven Chase for running to Vogler, there was nothing he could do about it now. Vogler wouldn't rehire Chase, especially when he believed that Chase actually had been double-timing. And if Chase had been telling the truth, he really had been trying to go up the creek without a paddle. It was no wonder he'd been so vehement about Cameron's innocence. Chase's naïve little conscience would have been suffocating under the guilt.

Oh, yeah. Cameron.

House stood up and limped over to the doorway between his office and the conference room. He pushed open the door just enough, poked his head in the room and gave Cameron a nasty look.

"Congratulations," he said sourly, and she looked up in surprise. "The jury has decided that you're not working for Vogler."

Cameron stared at him blankly for a second. "What?" she finally asked, assuming a properly suspicious expression. "Why? What's happened?"

"Nothing," House said. He ducked his head back into his office and let the door shut on its own, because he was already walking back to his desk.

This had the intended effect. Cameron, spurred by some newfound confidence in the fact that she was no longer in trouble, was standing in front of his desk by the time he turned around to sit down. She looked—well, not quite peeved, but it was a close thing.

"Why don't you think it's me anymore?" Cameron demanded, coming up to his desk and folding her arms over her chest. "I have a right to know."

"No, you really don't," House said mildly. He looked up to her and raised his eyebrows.

"Something's changed," Cameron said. She took a step forward, glancing down at the chess board that was still sitting on House's desk, the pieces in various positions across the board. Her hand reached out to touch one of the pieces.

House smacked it away. "I'll tell you why if you answer a question for me."

"What?" Cameron asked warily.

"Have you ever slept with Chase?"

"_What?_" Cameron squawked, her jaw dropping.

"Have you ever slept with Chase?" House repeated, enunciating each word carefully.

"You don't have the right to ask me that!" Cameron said indignantly.

House shrugged casually. "Ah, well… The world may never know."

Cameron looked furious. "I'm not going to play your games, House. Why don't you just _ask_ Chase if he's cheating on you?"

"Because I don't want to," House said automatically. Mentally, he was wondering how the hell Cameron had know that… that he had Chase had been together. She must have heard it from Wilson. House felt like punching something. Something vaguely Chase-shaped.

"Just ask him," Cameron prodded, her voice becoming gentler. "If you don't try to force it out of him, he'll be a lot more honest."

"I'm not going to ask him," House said, rolling his eyes at both her suggestion and at her suddenly gentle voice. As if he needed relationship advice from Cameron. "And if you're so hot on the gossip, you should know that Chase has been fired and won't be coming back."

"You fired him?" Cameron gasped, her eyes widening. "Oh my god. Just because—because you thought that he and I—"

"No, no, no," House said impatiently, waving a hand. "Vogler fired him. Although I was seconds away from it, before he interrupted. This really isn't your business, is it?"

Mutely, Cameron shook her head. She was still staring at House with a shocked expression on her face. But she did turn around to leave, the door quietly swinging shut behind her.

House exhaled, his gaze falling on the chessboard that was sitting in front of him. Something in him snapped.

Chess pieces flew everywhere.

oOo

"Good evening," Vogler said, smiling at them. It was just barely evening—the sun had set, but as it was still in the dead of winter, this didn't mean much. Wilson had managed to clear his schedule past this meeting and was looking forward to going home afterwards. Not specifically to be with his wife (she'd been shooting him nasty looks ever since he'd returned from the conference in Ohio, and Wilson still couldn't bring himself to ask why), but because this whole fiasco with House and Chase was making his head spin.

He was also certain that there was more to their story than he'd gleaned last night. House had locked himself in his office all day long and hadn't even allowed Wilson to come in with an afternoon peace offering of a Reuben sandwich with chips and a Dr. Pepper. He hoped that House would be in a better mood tomorrow—and if not a better one, then at least a talkative, story-telling one. The wild rumors that were flying around the hospital were beginning to give him a headache.

Unfortunately, this meeting was not helping. Vogler was going on about financial plans, moving steadfastly though a PowerPoint presentation. From the looks of everyone else in the room, Wilson wasn't the only one being bored stupid. Next to him, Nguyen was absently clicking a pen in and out. Falling back to his days in college, Wilson began to sink into a vague stupor, taking cues from Cuddy when it was appropriate to nod or turn the page.

It was an age before a black screen came up, and the white "End of slideshow, click to exit," appeared like a singing herald to the lethargic atmosphere of the room.

"We have one more issue to cover," Vogler said as he turned off the projector. "And then you'll free to go—I promise."

A few people smiled. Wilson made an effort, but he thought that it might have ended up looking more like a grimace.

"I'm sure that most of you have heard the latest gossip around here, concerning Dr. House and Dr. Chase," Vogler said slowly.

Wilson suddenly had a very bad feeling about what Vogler was going to say.

"In this case, though, the rumor has some base. The truth behind this rumor has left me with no choice but to move to revoke the tenure of Dr. Gregory House and terminate his employment at this hospital." Vogler sat back, and Wilson swore he saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

"What exactly did you hear happened?" Cuddy demanded, standing up before anyone else to get in a word. "I haven't heard a single thing that would necessitate his termination."

But Vogler shook his head. "There have been very serious allegations of sexual harassment and misconduct, and I cannot allow these to affect the hospital."

"There are always complaints being filed," Wilson said, and all heads turned in his direction. He glared at Vogler. "Every time he opens his mouth, someone wants to put a fist through it. Why now?"

Vogler gave him a level stare. "What Dr. House has done could lead to him being sent to jail. I will not condone this sort of behavior."

"Edward," Brown said from the far end of the table. "I think that we'd all feel better if we knew what it was that House has done that is so terrible."

"It's not exactly appropriate," Vogler said, but Wilson could see that he wasn't really hedging the request. Just playing his audience. "But Dr. Robert Chase—one of Dr. House's fellows—quit his job this morning. He told me that for the last month or so, Dr. House has been touching him in sexual ways and forcing him to do certain things for him. Certain favors. Up until now, he'd been too afraid to say anything. But last night, as I'm sure many of you heard, he finally told Dr. House that he was through being used, and quit first thing this morning."

Wilson was too stunned for words.

Cuddy was not.

"That's a lie," she said in a low voice, jumping to her feet and looking ready to spit nails. "You forced Dr. Chase to quit—you've been telling him what to do all along."

"Can you prove it?" Vogler asked calmly.

"Can you?" Cuddy shot back.

Vogler pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and laid it out on the table. "Dr. Chase affirms it. Filed the complaint this morning."

Speechless, Cuddy stared at the document.

"I overheard what Dr. Chase was saying to House," Hernandez said carefully, not looking at the paper. "It sounded more like he was telling House about an affair he'd had, not that he was done being a—well, a plaything."

"You must have heard wrong," Vogler said smoothly.

Wilson reached out and pulled the document towards him. He read Chase's words, scribbled down in nigh illegible handwriting, and his hands suddenly shook with the effort of containing his anger. He couldn't _believe_ that anyone would have the gall to try to pin this on House. How dare he? How _dare_ he do something like this? The words scrawled on this paper couldn't be farther from the truth, and yet Chase had signed it. Put his fucking signature on the line and verified that it was the truth. That signature was going to rob House of a job, Wilson knew, because Vogler had all the proof that he needed. The little shit had probably pranced out of the hospital this morning, whistling to himself.

Quickly, he set the paper back onto the table before he lost control and ripped it in half.

"So with these charges in order," Vogler said, his voice rising above and quieting the conversations that had crept up in the room, "I hereby call for a vote to revoke the tenure of Dr. Gregory House and terminate his employment at this hospital, effective immediately."

The room was quiet.

Wilson's eyes widened impossibly as Hernandez slowly put his hand in the air. What was he _doing?_

Eyes shifted around the room as the awkward silence persisted. Hernandez looked like he'd begun to regret his decision to put his arm up when Brown and Kline both put their arms up in perfect unison. Wilson's head spun as he watched hands fly up all across the room, accumulating until the only people left were himself and Cuddy. He felt absolutely stunned that House was being dismissed so quickly. Had he really rallied himself so many enemies over the years, or were they just afraid of Vogler's power?

Vogler cleared his throat.

Staring down at the table, Cuddy raised her hand.

Wilson's mouth fell open in shock. He stared at her, but she was still refusing to look anywhere but the laminated wood of the tabletop. What the hell was she playing—

"Dr. Wilson?" Vogler suddenly said.

He turned to face Vogler, suddenly feeling like there were several large spears being pointed at his head.

"Opposed?" he ventured, for the hot anger that had steeled his resolve before had quickly dissipated.

"The motion is defeated," Vogler said, conceding this loss with the nod of his head. Around the room, hands went down. "Dr. Wilson, would you mind leaving the room?"

"Excuse me?" Wilson said, not quite believing what he'd heard.

Confusion shifted the atmosphere of the room, and even though nobody said anything, it was apparent that conversations were taking place all around him.

Vogler gave him a deceptively patient look. "We're going to take another vote."

"Well, first of all," Wilson began, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice, "you can't void my vote by making me stand out in the hallway. And second, you should check the by-laws; you need notice and at least one business day before you can reconsider any matter."

Around him, the silent conversations had ceased. They were all watching and waiting, intent.

"We're voting on a different manner of which you are…" Vogler took his time searching for the right words. "Conflicted out of."

"How can I be conflicted?" Wilson asked, feeling the faint stirrings of that steely anger again.

Vogler gave him a half smile. "This vote is whether to dismiss Dr. James Wilson."

oOo

Wilson had been fuming when he'd left the hospital that night. He'd slammed the car door, accelerated furiously out of the parking lot and had honked at someone for taking too long at a stop sign. But by the time he pulled into the parking lot of Risco's (the closest bar to the hospital), he had calmed down. In fact, Wilson felt something more akin to a hysterical kind of laughter coming on as he locked his car, but he held it back. Yes, he was fired—or as good as—but that didn't mean that he should completely lose his head. And laughing crazily to oneself while entering a bar was a bad way to make an impression on any potential female company.

The bar gave the appearance of a giant cinderblock. It was grey and dusty and smelled a bit like powdered concrete, and the various posters, dartboards and memorabilia couldn't hide the ugly grey walls of the place. But Wilson didn't come here because of the décor. He came here because it was small and the alcohol was cheap—and mostly because no one from the hospital came here. Ever since the ER had gotten five drunk gay men who had been brawling in Risco's, the popular assumption had been that it was a gay bar and people stayed away from it. Wilson knew better. He didn't dare try to correct anyone for fear of losing his sanctuary; he hadn't even bothered to enlighten House.

No one here knew him except for the bartender, who was as large as a vending machine and probably had a corresponding IQ, and a six-foot-one man who enjoyed holding one-sided conversations with the bartender. Wilson thought he might have a light case of Asperger's syndrome.

Wilson walked in, relishing the musky warmth of the bar. It was freezing outside. A few heads turned in his direction, but as he was neither a cop nor a female, he was quickly dismissed and forgotten. He threw his coat over one of the barstools and was about to order a shot of something or other when he caught sight of the man sitting two stools down. He stared for a split second, not quite able to believe what he saw, and then he marched over to the man.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Chase looked up to him, expression vague. "Wilson…" he said to himself, and a frown creased his forehead. "What are you doing here?"

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" Wilson said loudly, not caring that a few people turned away from their drinks to stare at him. "Do you know what you've done?"

A dopey smile appeared on Chase's face, and he blinked. "You can punch me, if you want. House did too. It hurts a lot. He was really mad."

Wilson's hands flexed as he resisted the urge to punch Chase off the barstool. "I hope he knocked you on your ass."

"Yeah," Chase said, nodding slowly. "Then he yelled at me some, but I told him the truth and he believes me. I saw it."

"Believes what?" Wilson asked suspiciously, his curiosity speaking before his anger.

Chase laughed, his grin widening. "Well, not really, Wilson. He was really mad. But if Vogler hadn't fired me, he would have believed me. I hate Vogler. I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, we know," Wilson muttered.

"What?" Chase asked, frowning.

"Nothing," Wilson said shortly. "What didn't House believe?"

"That I love him," Chase said earnestly, his expression suddenly excited. "I think so. You know, I didn't want to do it to him. Valium, maybe. But Vogler made me. I hate Vogler."

Wilson snorted. "Right. Vogler made you."

Chase stopped, and then frowned as he thought about something. Then he nodded. "Yes he did. I know. I remember."

"Did he put a gun to your head, perhaps?" Wilson asked dryly.

"He was going to going to fire House," Chase said, clumsily trying to push hair out of his eyes. He ended up poking himself in the eye. "Ow…"

"He's just going to fire House now," Wilson pointed out. He abruptly realized that he was trying to have a conversation with a drunk man—and not just any drunk man, but the one that he'd been ready to tear limb from limb not fifteen minutes ago. He opened his mouth to wrap up the conversation, but Chase had something to say first.

"House is fired?" Chase asked, his eyes suddenly wide and his voice concerned. "No, he's not. Not really. Vogler said if I signed it, he wouldn't fire him. Just punish him. He lied, didn't he? I hate Vogler."

"Signed the complaint form?" Wilson asked. The gears in his mind had begun to spin, and he was very glad that he'd talked to Chase before he'd started drinking. They probably would have ended up in a bar fight. "Vogler told you that if you didn't, he'd fire House?"

"I didn't want to sign it," Chase told him, looking very serious. "Really. But House needs his job. And everyone hates him."

Wilson wondered what that had to do with anything. "Right. I thought you didn't drink?"

"Of course I do," Chase said matter-of-factly. "Never enough to get drunk. But I can drink."

"Chase, you're drunk," Wilson said, trying not to laugh as Chase shook his head and looked a little dizzy.

"No, I feel better now." Chase's hand went for the almost-empty glass on the bar counter, but Wilson pulled his hand as back. Chase glared at him, wrestling his hand free. "Stop it. That's helping."

"It's not helping anything," Wilson said. "And neither are you. You've already done enough damage—don't add your liver to the list."

Chase frowned. "House would give me some of his. Like a soap opera. Is he still mad?"

"Yes, he is," Wilson said, sighing. He was beginning to get a very different picture of Chase. "Your best bet is to never see him again. He'll be out of a job soon, so it shouldn't be too much trouble."

"House got fired?" Chase asked, staring at Wilson with an incredulity that told him that he clearly had no memory of asking the same thing only a few minutes ago. "No he didn't. I told you. Vogler promised."

"Vogler lied," Wilson said flatly.

"I hate Vogler," Chase said, for the umpteenth time. He tried to grab his glass again, but Wilson reached over and snatched it away. He pushed it over the counter, and the bartender meandered over to pick it up. "It's his fault House hates me," Chase said miserably. "I wish he'd die. I wish I'd die."

Slightly alarmed, Wilson thought quickly. "Look, why don't we get you back to your apartment? Did you drive here?"

Chase shook his head. "Why? You can't have my car. It's mine. I bought it."

"I know it is," Wilson said patiently. "I'm going to drive you home."

"One more," Chase said. His hand went across the counter to summon the bartender, but Wilson was quicker.

"He's done for the night," he told the bartender, who nodded and went back to the glass he was cleaning. Wilson wondered if the rag had been black before or after he'd started to clean the glass, but Chase's incoherent protest made him snap back to reality. "Up," he said, helping Chase to his feet. He'd done this so many times for House (who was much taller and more difficult to control than Chase) that it came easily.

"I'm really sorry," Chase said loudly—not to Wilson, but to everyone else in the bar. He turned away and stared down at the ground. "Really sorry…"

Wilson got him outside ("Fucking hell, it's cold!") and into his car without too much of a problem. Chase tried to buckle his seatbelt, but had trouble getting the buckle to go into the clasp, and so he instead recited his address as Wilson did it for him.

"221B West 27th," Chase said.

Wilson winced, yanking out another length of the seatbelt as he tried to get it buckled. "That's House's. I need _your_ address."

"My toothbrush is there," Chase said, as if this was very important to him. "Windbreaker apartments. That's me. But I need my stuff."

Finally having snapped the seatbelt in place, Wilson sat back in his seat and exhaled. He knew where those apartments were, and they weren't too far from here.

"Thanks," Chase muttered as he started up the car. "I think I drank too much."

"No kidding," Wilson said. He turned the heat up so that it was blasting out of the vents. "When did you get there?"

"Where?" Chase asked, blinking at him in a rather owlish fashion.

"The bar," Wilson said, impatience creeping into his voice.

Chase blinked again as he thought. "Right after Vogler fired me. He _fired_ me. I hate Vogler. He lies to everyone. Liar, liar, liar."

"And what time did Vogler fire you?" Wilson asked, steering Chase back to the conversation. He wondered why Vogler had fired Chase in the first place.

"Dunno. Ten. But he made me write that thing and made me sign it. That took a while," Chase said, nodding to himself. "Then I went to the bar. I didn't want to drink. I just wanted to be there."

"When did you start drinking?" Wilson asked. His voice was patient, but he was actually eager to get the bottom of this.

"Cameron called me," Chase said suddenly. "But I didn't answer. I didn't want to. She's worried about me, I think. Wilson, you should tell her the truth—maybe she can help."

"You're very talkative when you're drunk," Wilson said mildly. "You're going to hate yourself in the morning."

"No I'm not," Chase said.

Wilson didn't know if he meant that he wasn't talkative, wasn't drunk, or wasn't going to hate himself in the morning. He was wrong on all three counts, of course. But Wilson just nodded in agreement and turned right, deciding that Chase would be singing a different tune in the morning.

oOo

Cuddy could not sleep.

Not with Wilson fired and House on his way out tomorrow. She couldn't bring herself to realize that she was going to have to find a replacement for Wilson. Diagnostics would probably fall apart without House. Vogler seemed to hold a personal grudge against the department and would ensure that it didn't survive the week.

She'd seen the look on Wilson's face when her hand had went up. He'd looked stunned. But Cuddy couldn't help it—Vogler would have fired her, too, if she'd said no. And at least if she was still working for the hospital, she could do what she could to minimize the effects of Vogler's reign. If she'd voted no like Wilson, he would have had her replaced by tomorrow, by someone with a comfy position in the palm of his hand. She still had the power to do her job and help people, and it was better than being fired. You had to sacrifice personal beliefs for the greater good. She'd rather see House gone than lose her own job, and with it, all hope of ever getting rid of Vogler.

Vogler's hundred million dollars had been a steep price for the freedom they'd lost. Just tonight, by simply clearing his throat, Cuddy had obeyed him. It was getting to be ridiculous, and something had to be done. She would do something to change this. Just not over this issue, because doing something like this wouldn't be helpful at all. She would wait for her moment, patiently, and then make things right again when the time came.

But then why did she still feel so guilty?

oOo

Chase awoke with a splitting headache. He hated waking up with headaches. It was just adding insult to injury; not only did he have to get up, but he had to do it in agony. His head pounded something fierce as he opened his eyes, but he quickly shut them as light stabbed his corneas. Fuck, that hurt. He felt like shit. His head was squeezing and his stomach was lurching violently—oh, no—

He barely made it to the bathroom, stumbling blindly down the hallway as he tried not to open his eyes. His knees slammed onto the linoleum tile, but he barely felt the impact because he was puking up every organ in his body. Disgusting, gut-wrenching minutes were spent over the toilet bowl. Water splashed back up in his face and he gasped for breath, but couldn't stop. He couldn't breathe, and there were tears coming out of his eyes and he knew that he was sweating because it dried cold.

Finally, when he was finished being sick, Chase sat back and reached for a roll of toilet paper to wipe himself off with. He ripped some off awkwardly, fell back against the wall and sat there, breathing hard and trying to convince himself that he should get up and swallow some ibuprofen. But he was incredibly tired and his head hurt, even in the dark of the bathroom. What the hell was wrong with him? He hadn't felt sick yest—

Oh. That was right. He'd gone and drank himself into oblivion yesterday. Right after—shit—right after Vogler had fired him. Shit, shit and shit. And then… Then there had been Wilson. Yesterday had not been a good day at all. He was dreading finding out what he'd told Wilson. He had the vague memory of Wilson saying, "You're going to hate yourself in the morning."

This was not comforting. He would have much preferred remembering Wilson saying, "You're a very boring and quiet drunk who's done nothing interesting all night."

Chase knew that he probably reeked of alcohol, and decided to shower. Not that he had anywhere to go, of course, but it was the principle of the thing. Besides, he was hoping that a shower would get rid of the feeling that his tongue had grown fuzzy overnight and that he'd just jumped off of a spinning merry-go-round. And then he would change his clothes, because he'd been wearing this shirt since yesterday morning. Maybe, if he was feeling better by then, he'd scramble some eggs, maybe add some peppers to them. It had been a long time since he'd something nice for breakfast.

At least there was one plus to losing his job.

With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet and contemplated taking a shower in the dark, but decided that it would be way too weird. He turned on the lights and endured the axes to his head as he forced his eyes open. Once he got in the shower, it wasn't so bad. Chase hadn't realized how dirty he was until he felt all the grime and muck washing off of him, and suddenly, his skin could breathe and it felt wonderful. After gargling water several times, and then swallowing some more, the taste of vomit left and his mouth actually felt like he could use it to speak. Even his headache faded a little.

He stepped out of the shower and towel-dried his hair as best he could, then pulled out some casual clothes that had been hiding in the back of his closet. He didn't have much left here.

This thought made him swallow hard, and Chase quickly decided that his headache needed some ibuprofen. He still had plenty of that in the cupboard.

Chase was pouring himself a glass of water from the tap when someone knocked at the door. Thankfully, his headache had quieted down enough that it only made him wince slightly. Quickly taking the two pills and then washing them down with a gulp of water, Chase made his way to the door.

"Uh… Hi," Wilson said when he opened the door. He was holding a cardboard box (a rather large one) and bore a nervous expression. "Morning."

Slightly confused, Chase stepped back and let Wilson into the room. "Morning," he said in reply, but it was the first word he'd spoken since he'd been up and it came out too tangled up in mucus to be understood. He cleared his throat and spoke again. "Good morning. Sorry."

"You're looking better than I expected," Wilson said. He set the box on Chase's couch.

"I woke up feeling like shit," Chase offered, wondering how Wilson had meant that. "Taking a shower helped a lot." He also wondered if it was normal for Wilson to come over people's houses unannounced, bearing strange boxes.

Wilson nodded. "Yeah, it usually does. Remember anything from last night?"

Chase opened his mouth, and then shut it and thought for a moment. "Not really. I remember you telling me that I was going to hate myself in the morning."

"You were a very talkative person last night," Wilson told him.

Oh, shit. Chase closed his eyes as he steeled off the awful feeling that he'd told Wilson a lot of things that he wouldn't have if he hadn't been utterly wasted. Half of him just wanted to tell Wilson not to tell him, that he'd prefer not to know where his big mouth had gotten him this time. But he knew that he needed to hear what he'd told Wilson. It would drive him crazy to not know, later on.

"Before you tell me what an ass I made out of myself, what's in the box?" Chase asked, walking around the couch so that he could open the box.

"I, um, he… House asked me to bring it over," Wilson said, looking extremely uncomfortable. "He also said that you had something of his."

Wilson's words were enough to tell Chase what was in the box, but he opened the top flap anyway. Inside were his clothes, his toothbrush, his car keys that he'd left sitting on the piano two nights ago, and a few other miscellaneous things. Wilson might have just thrown the box at his stomach, because he felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him as he stared down at all of his things. It shouldn't have hurt this much. He'd been such an idiot to get involved with House at all, not when he'd known how painful it would be afterward—and yet, he had. And now he would take his punishment without complaint.

"Chase?" Wilson said softly.

Snapping out of his reverie, Chase shook his head and closed the lid to the cardboard box. "I've—I've got House's key... Later. Before you leave, I'll give it to you.

Wilson nodded.

Chase blew out a breath. "So what did I tell you last night?"


	23. The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

**Untouchable  
Chapter 23  
**_(The Trick Is To Keep Breathing)_

House knew that something was wrong from the time that he stepped foot into the conference room. Actually, things had been a little strange since he'd stepped foot in the hospital. People kept staring at him, and then looked away in fear when they realized that they'd been caught. House wanted to write it off as people finally coming to their senses about who was really boss around here, but with Vogler running around yelling "Off with its head!" in every plausible direction, it was highly unlikely. He'd been meaning the ask his ducklings—who were usually smart enough to either stay away from or be skeptical about the rumor mill of the hospital—just what everyone thought they knew about him, but when he came in, both of them tried very hard to hide the fact that they'd been staring at him through the glass. That had been when he'd realized that whatever it was, it must be pretty bad.

"Cameron!" he said, momentarily pausing to enjoy the terrified looks on both of their faces.

Cameron slowly lifted her head, looking guilty. "What?"

"Look at me," House ordered.

Raising her head slowly, she faced House and averted her eyes to the side. "Do we have a patient?" she asked, her voice unusually high and breathy.

House scowled at her. "What's the matter with everyone today? Has Cuddy been telling you about that time in college when I dared Joan Lawhorn to take a can of whipped cream and use it to—"

"It's nothing," Cameron said, quickly looked back down to the table.

Behind her, Foreman snorted. He looked a good deal more relaxed than Cameron, and met House's eyes from across the room. "She's afraid you're going to come onto her. Cop a feel. Popular rumor is that you've been doing the same thing to Chase, and he's pressing charges."

"No I'm not!" Cameron protested. "I think the whole idea is ridiculous.

"Who the hell started that rumor?" House demanded, ignoring Cameron. His grip on his cane tightened. He was innocent, dammit, and he was going to kill whoever had started this obscene rumor. It was even more ridiculous than the rumor he'd spread around about Cuddy's new red pants giving her a cameltoe when she'd been overseeing a pediatrics fundraising event.

But Foreman disappointed him with a shrug. "I don't know. It's a rumor, House—no one ever knows who starts them."

House reached out and grabbed Cameron's wrist, pulling her up out of her chair and way too close to his personal-space bubble, but it proved the point. He heard Cameron's sharp intake of breath, and Foreman's hands clenched into fists. House patted Cameron on the head and smiled. "See that? If I'd wanted to ravish Cameron, I could have done it months ago. No reason to do it now, especially now that I'm apparently the new Humbert Humphrey."

Cameron wrenched her wrist free and glared at him. "I _said_ I wasn't scared of you."

"You had your other toy before," Foreman pointed out, not even looking at Cameron. "Now he's quit, what's to say that you won't be getting lonely."

House let out a harsh bark of laughter and he shook his head, almost grinning at Foreman. "Is that what they're saying? Chase _quit?_"

Foreman scowled. "Yes, that's what they're saying. What are _you_ saying, Chase was fired?"

"Why are you so cocky?" House asked suddenly, taking a step towards Foreman. "Obviously, I like men. It's much more likely I'd go for you, not Cameron."

"I think I could defend myself," Foreman said blandly, reaching for his coffee mug. "Chase probably just flipped his hair around a bit, hoping that it would swipe your eyes and blind you."

House felt hot sparks of anger at the jibe, and the knowledge that Foreman would wipe the floor with his ass if he ever tried to do anything like that. Not that he was interested. But he stuffed the feeling that he was making an ass out of himself deep down, where he couldn't think about it, and glowered at Foreman. "I could take you," he said, and then he turned on his heel and limped over to his office, white hot anger pounding in his veins.

He blamed it all on Chase, of course.

If he hadn't been working for Vogler, then none of this would be happening. They never would have started that damned game, he would have never brought Chase to his apartment and made that idiotic—_idiotic_—request that Chase move in with him. He'd bet his iPod that Chase had been shaking with silent laughter, trying to hold back his glee at how quickly his boss had fallen for his insidious little schemes. It made his blood boil to think of all the times when he'd—he'd shown Chase something of his own and he had probably been—but House stopped thinking about it. He didn't want to think about it. There was no point, because he couldn't change anything.

He took a deep breath, and when he opened the eyes that he hadn't realized that he'd shut, Wilson was standing in front of him.

"Howdy," House said, sidestepping and moving past Wilson to get to his desk.

Wilson had his arms folded over his chest, which was never a good sign.

"Hi," he said, turned to watch House sit down. "I need to talk to you."

House made his best Hurt-and-Shocked face. "Oh, no! James, don't tell me you've been sleeping with that Connie again!"

But Wilson's expression was grim. "House, it's about Chase."

"Don't care," House said immediately.

"You'll listen, if I have to hold you down," Wilson said sternly, taking a step towards House as if to reinforce the fact that he was ready to stop House from bounding out of his chair and running for the conference room.

"Ah, you can lead the horse to water…" House said. His hands went to the middle desk drawer, and he pulled out his iPod. Using his free hand, he waved at Wilson without looking at him. "Carry on."

Wilson sighed audibly, and then drew in a breath. "He was in over his head, House. Vogler went to Chase two months ago and offered him protection in exchange for information—then Vogler changed the deal and he didn't know what to do. He was trapped."

House nodded, still untangling the headphones. "Mm…" he said, careful to keep his tone disinterested.

"He really does care for you," Wilson said earnestly. "And he's a mess right now. I know that it doesn't change the fact that he betrayed you, but House, he didn't mean for things to spiral so far out of control. Chase was just trying to protect himself—and in the end, you. Vogler made him sign that complaint. He told him that unless he signed it, you'd be fired. Chase thought he was saving you, not putting the final nail in the coffin."

"What complaint?" House asked warily.

Wilson stopped, frowning. "Well, I would have thought it would be all over the hospital by now. Chase filed an official complaint before he quit, claiming that you sexually harassed him."

"I did not!" House said loudly, scowling up at Wilson. His hand twitched as he reminded himself that he was holding his precious iPod, not a pencil that he could crush with satisfaction. "That's the most backwards thing I've ever heard. Why the hell would—"

"I know," Wilson interrupted, shaking his head. "I know it is. But he told me that Vogler promised to leave you alone once he'd signed it."

"That's even more backwards," House said incredulously. "How thick is he?"

"He was worried about you, and obviously wasn't thinking clearly," Wilson said reproachfully. "Besides, what other options did he have?"

"He didn't have to sign the form," House growled.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Chase was already losing his job, and he knew that you were going to be gone in a matter of hours. What was there to lose by signing it?"

"My reputation?" House suggested.

"Right," Wilson said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Because you're not already known for being the jackass with more complaints on his file than the rest of the department heads put together times two. Hospitals would be lined up out the door to hire you."

"Why are you defending him?" House demanded, unsubtly changing the subject. "I'm the _victim_ here."

Wilson nodded. "I know that, House. I just… I talked to him this morning, and he's got a side of the story, too. I'm not denying that what he's done was wrong. He just deserves a second chance."

"Well I would rehire him," House said mournfully, "but I'm no longer in charge of things around here. So unfortunately, little Chasey-wasey's going to have to find a job in the meantime. I'll let him know as soon as the position's open."

"I didn't mean you had to rehire him," Wilson said quietly.

House stared at him for a minute, analyzing all the possible meanings of the sentence before choosing the one that he wanted to comment on. "I don't want to see him. Ever. Tell him that, when you go home tonight to comfort him some more."

"I'm not going home tonight," Wilson said, frowning at him. "I can't believe the gossip is so behind. Vogler fired me last night."

House's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "He did _what?_"

"He fired me last night," Wilson repeated mildly, looking utterly serene about this. "I voted not to fire you, and he wanted me out of the way. There'll be a revote tonight—don't expect anyone else to get the same idea."

House glared at him, and unsure of what else he could say, plugged the headphones into his ears and tuned his iPod on. "Get out of my office, you useless bum. You'll spend your Welfare check on parking alone if you're here for another hour."

Wilson did not look happy with him, but left all the same.

oOo

Cameron went to Cuddy, after House had retreated into his office and didn't come out after nearly an hour. She told herself that she wasn't actually scared of her boss. She just wanted to know if House had—that House hadn't been doing those awful things to Chase this whole time. There had to be another explanation, and if there was anyone who would know it, it would be Cuddy. She always knew everything that went on around here. And even though there were rumors running rampant around the hospital, Cameron refused to believe anything this terrible about House until she'd heard it directly from either Cuddy or Wilson. Since Wilson had been fired last night, it only left Cuddy.

She felt generally confused about the whole situation. First, she'd heard from Wilson that yes, House and Chase were involved, and he'd given her terse instructions to not say a word to anyone. And Cameron hadn't. But the next day, when she'd come in, Chase hadn't been there and House had holed himself in his office all day. But then it had simply been a little quarrel—last night, when Chase had stalked off and was closely followed by House, that must have been it—and Chase had probably been too upset to come in and deal with House all day long. But today, everyone was saying that Chase had _quit_ yesterday because House had been doing things to him for the last few weeks. It didn't make any sense at all.

The first puzzling thing that came to mind was why Wilson would tell her that House and Chase were together, if Chase was being forced into the whole thing? It was possible that Wilson hadn't known what was really going on, but not likely, because Wilson was sort of like House's little Jiminy Cricket. He would have put a stop to something as awful as that right away.

Secondly, when she and Chase had that rather disastrous kiss, he'd told that he couldn't get into a relationship because he was seeing someone else. Why would he say that he was 'seeing someone else' if that someone else was House, who was practically raping him at every dark corner? Why wouldn't he have asked for help, said that he was struggling and wanted to be with her, but he couldn't because their boss was hurting him? Any idiot would have. The only reason Chase wouldn't have asked for help would be if he didn't need it. And that was why she went to Cuddy.

Wilson was leaving when she arrived. He held open the door for her, smiling kindly, and Cameron gave him one in return. "Morning."

"Morning," Wilson said in reply, nodding.

Then she was inside, and she heard the door swing shut behind her. She focused on Cuddy, who was working at her desk. "Morning, Dr. Cuddy."

"Good morning," Cuddy said, pushing a stapled set of papers slightly to the right and giving her a strained smile in return. "What's House done?"

"I'm more interested in what Chase has done," Cameron said, rather bluntly. She felt that it had come out a little harsh, and tried to compensate with a look of genuine concern.

Cuddy laughed slightly. "I don't know most of the story myself, Dr. Cameron."

"I only wanted to verify a few things," Cameron reassured her quickly. "I mean, there are all these wild rumors flying around the hospital…"

"Yes, of course. There always are," Cuddy said, rolling her eyes.

Cameron bit her lip. "I… Has House really been harassing Chase? Like they're saying?"

Another short laugh from Cuddy. "Honestly? I think that Dr. House is the only innocent one in this mess."

"But then why did Chase say that?" Cameron asked. Had Chase meant it as a simple revenge for the little spat he and House had had that night at the Valentine's Day benefit? She really hoped that he wasn't so petty as to do that.

"He…" Cuddy trailed off, frowning thoughtfully. "He thought that he was helping."

This made Cameron stare for a moment as she tried to work that out. "How does that help? If he wanted to—"

"I know," Cuddy said, and Cameron felt the sting of anger as she heard her placating tone. "I know that it doesn't make any sense. This whole thing is absolutely ridiculous, and I'd give you the full story if I only knew it myself."

Cameron fought back a sigh of frustration. She was just as mixed up in this as everyone else, and yet no one cared to tell her what was going on. She had a right to _know_, dammit. But she would never find out the truth by talking to the impenetrable wall that was Cuddy, so she quickly thanked her and left. Cuddy smiled back and returned to her paper work, and Cameron could almost see her sagging in relief (although she hadn't, but Cameron swore it wasn't a figment of her imagination).

Walking down the hallway, Cameron pulled out her cell phone and headed for the nearest empty room. In situations like these, the best thing to was to get to the bottom of things was to go directly to the source of it all. And because she highly doubted that Vogler would give her the time of day without making her pay for it, let alone tell her what had been going on between House and Chase these last few months, Cameron decided to go to the next best thing.

Her enigmatic ex-coworker, Chase.

oOo

Chase was running.

He hadn't made a serious effort to stay in shape since he'd quit the football team. There had been a brief time when he'd started exercising every morning, when he'd first moved to the States, but that had died a quick death once he'd started working under House.

Now he was huffing and puffing after only fifteen minutes or so. He was almost embarrassingly out of shape.

A long fifteen minutes it had been. It was freezing outside, and he was the only person crazy enough to be out on the sidewalks. Chase was pretty sure that he preferred it this way. Alone. It was something he'd better get used to, because he was very much alone in the world right now. No family, no friends, no anyone.

Chase shook his head, pushing the thought out of his mind and focusing on the run. He felt dizzy and his heart was squeezing horribly, and unlike so many years ago, if did not feel good. It felt painful and useless. Every muscle fiber in him was already bathed in acid, screaming for relief, but the knowledge that he was the one denying himself rest was almost comforting. This was pain that he _should_ be feeling, the pain that should be tearing him apart inside, but this was easier to deal with. He could control this—as soon as it got to be too much, he could slow down to a walk and let it dissipate until he made it back to his apartment. That was reassuring. So he kept running, loving it and hating it at the same time.

He was sure that what had happened last night wasn't as bad as he was imagining it to be, but Wilson had told him a lot this morning. It had been unnerving to hear just how much Wilson had figured out, and most of the time, he'd been spot on. He'd known about Vogler—how it had all begun, how Vogler had changed the deal… Wilson had even figured out the complaint that he'd filed against House.

Chase inhaled sharply, the air cutting his dry throat and shriveling his lungs. He couldn't believe that he'd been so stupid. Wilson had told him how Vogler had lied through his teeth and tried to fire House last night, despite his promise. Hell, that complaint had been the ammunition that he'd used to convince the board that House needed to go. Chase wished that he could take it back, more than anything. It didn't matter that at the time, he'd only been trying to help, because House would never see it that way. He'd signed away any chance he'd ever had at retribution with the complaint.

This was completely irrational thinking, because House wouldn't have forgiven him even if he'd refused Vogler's latest deal. The complaint had made no difference, really. But he still wished beyond all wishes that he could take it back. There might have been a sliver of a chance that House would… But now it was gone.

Essentially, he was the reason that House would be fired tonight (for Wilson had told him that Vogler would most certainly be calling for a revote at tonight's meeting and, after last night's demonstration, would have a unanimous vote for House's termination). Wilson had said that the complaint had only sped up the inevitable, but Chase suspected that he'd only said that to make him feel better. He didn't need anyone to comfort him. What was more, he hardly deserved to have anyone comfort him. Wilson should have screamed at him this morning, thrown him around the room and demanded things that Chase couldn't answer. It only made Chase feel worse, that Wilson was being so kind about everything. It didn't make any sense.

That might have been partly why he was running. The pain that was pounding in his chest, in his arms and legs, was certainly a punishment of some kind. Right? Had he unconsciously decided to punish himself for what he'd done to House? He'd never… Masochism had never appealed to him. But it wasn't masochism if it was only running. And it wasn't like he was enjoying the pain—he hated it with a gut-twisting passion—it was the feeling of working off his debt that he enjoyed. He needed to… he needed to feel the burning of his muscles, wanted to exhaust himself beyond all reason, but it wasn't because he liked it. That wasn't it at all.

What did it matter? Maybe he was a masochist. Maybe he found the agony a little bit reassuring.

"_I already told you, I met her at some parties."_

"_What kind of parties?"_

"_Why? You want to go to one?"_

"_Maybe. Depends which end of the whip you were on."_

"_I didn't do whips."_

"_What did you do?"_

"_Bondage. I tried strangulation, which is where I met Annette, but I preferred bondage."_

"_You're lying."_

"_Yeah."_

"_Now you're being facetious."_

"_Uh-huh."_

"_Why are you smiling?"_

"_Want me to give you a demonstration?"_

"_You've got leather straps in your bag?"_

"_No. But we can tie you down with something else, don't worry."_

"_Tie _who_ down?"_

Chase choked on air, almost tripping over himself at the wave of emotion that swamped him. He stuffed it down, shook his head and waited until it had all washed away. Thoughts receded, impulses suffocated and drifted back into the darkness, and Chase felt empty and hollow after it all. Part of him longed to have that feeling back. He wasn't sure why, but it was most definitely not because he'd sort of relished it.

He was losing the will to keep running. Psychological fatigue, he told himself. It wasn't true exhaustion, and he could probably keep going for another hour or so before he began to go into actual physical fatigue. He could keep pushing, even though it was harder and harder to run in a straight line and not trip over his own shoes. His limbs felt out of control, flying all over the place if he let them, and his chest ached with the strain. He couldn't have been running for more than twenty minutes.

He thought about stopping. He thought about giving into what every single cell in him was pleading for him to do, thought about how good it would feel to go back to his apartment and collapse onto his bed and lay there until he fell asleep. Then he would wake up and take a wonderfully hot shower, make some hot chocolate and play one of his more involved video games. Nothing mindless. All that was waiting for him, if only he stopped right now and stumbled into a shaky walk back to his apartment. The temptation was strong, he supposed. But it was distant. He couldn't seem to snap out of the rhythmic motions of putting one foot down after the other, over and over. He was on a strange sort of autopilot.

It was probably for the best. Anytime he came out and tried to do anything for himself, he screwed everything up. Just like he'd done with House. If he could have managed to do that whole thing without getting involved, keeping it all with the sex and all at the hospital, then everything would have gone so much better. He'd still have his job, and he would still be working under House—and House would have been so, so mad at him. He would have punished him the way that he'd punished Cameron, given Chase the punishment that should have been his from the very beginning, and somewhere towards the end, House might have forgotten about it. If he hadn't gotten emotionally involved, it wouldn't hurt this much.

Chase tripped, and wasn't able to catch himself. He slammed into the concrete face-first, skidding forward slightly.

Pain exploded everywhere, and Chase couldn't breathe for a minute. The wind had been knocked out of him. He lay on the ground, unable to move for an eternity, and felt his entire body pulse with pain. Tears were burning his face, his skull had been bashed in, his nose was running with blood, his palms had been ripped open, he couldn't breathe. And it was glorious.

oOo

"Chase? Are you there? It's Cameron. I… I heard what happened. We should talk. Do you want to go out for coffee or something? I'm really worried about you."

oOo

Something in her snapped, and she felt as if she'd just been catapulted into the air. She kept her hand down.

"Dr. Cuddy, you realize this is going to happen," Vogler said calmly.

"I can't do it," Cuddy said, crossing her arms. She had never been so certainly terrified in all her life, but thankfully, she hid it well. She stared back at Vogler coolly, unwilling to let on to the fact that her heart was pounding. Part of her still couldn't believe that she was doing this, but part of her was sailing through the air, dangerously free and wild with her newfound courage. Adrenaline pounded in her veins, and she felt alive. After two months of suffocation, she was breathing and didn't give a damn whether or not the cost of it was her job.

"You can't abstain," Vogler said, a dangerous glint in his eye. He was warning her, trying to tell her that he could fire her in a heartbeat.

So be it, Cuddy thought wickedly. "I'm not abstaining—I'm voting no."

"You've changed your mind since yesterday?" Vogler asked, raising his eyebrows. "What did he do, buy you dinner and roses? Threaten to drown your dog?"

Cuddy knew that he was search for something material. Something that he could trump. "Things have happened," she said frankly, looking around the room at her coworkers and praying that they would join her. But if they didn't, then that was fine, too. Let them be strangled—she was done. "I vote no to the termination of Dr. House's employment."

"He's a madman," Vogler said, and there was no mistaking the anger in his voice now. "He's dangerous, running around the hospital, accountable to no one."

"You're not accountable to anyone either!" Cuddy said loudly, standing up. She didn't care that she was losing her temper, because the gag in her mouth had been yanked out of her mouth, and now the words were pouring out. "You think you own us, and you don't. This board was not intended to have one voice dictating all others, but for everyone to have an equal say. You haven't been giving us that."

Vogler's face twisted into something awful, something hateful and mutinous, but a second later his mask came back. "I move for the immediate dismissal of Dr. Lisa Cuddy."

"She's upset—we all are," Brown said, looking from Cuddy to Vogler with a worried expression on his face. His gaze landed on Cuddy. "Why would you risk your career to save him?"

Still running on adrenaline, Cuddy fixed him with a hard stare, and after a moment, extended it to the rest of the room. "If you think that House deserves to go—if you think that I deserve to go—Wilson deserved to go—then vote yes. But if you're doing this because you're afraid of losing his money, then he's right; he does own you." She gave Vogler one last malicious look, and then took a step away from the table. "You have a choice. Maybe the last real one you'll ever have here."

And then she left, and even though she strongly suspected that she had gotten herself fired, she couldn't stop a grin from spreading on her face. It felt good to _breathe_.


	24. Hands in Plain Sight

**Untouchable  
Chapter 24  
**_(Hands In Plain Sight)_

Cameron waits. With patience, with dignity, with resolve, she waits for something to change. She knows that House can't hide out in his office for the entire year, just as she knows that eventually, the real story of what happened to Chase will come out. She's called Chase three times, but he's never picked up. She plans to call again tomorrow. She also plans to find a few cases to propose to House, because if there's anything he needs right now, it's a distraction. The world simply can't go on like this. So she does what she can, and then sits back and waits because it's all that she can do.

Cuddy breathes. Day by day passes by, and she watches the hospital reassemble itself automatically, without help, almost as if everyone has been waiting for this release. She breathes deeply, surely, and she smells things that she has not smelled in weeks. The loss of Vogler was supposed to have crippled them. She doesn't think that it has. Yesterday, she saw a mouse running over the thick blanket of snow lying on the grass, and she smiled because she's been that terrified little mouse, searching for a shadow to hide under on a barren expanse of white, for far too long. The February air is bitter and harsh, but she inhales deeply and enjoys the burning of her lungs.

Wilson loves, with a renewed vigor. His wife is ecstatic with all the attention he's been showering her with. Now that Chase is gone, Wilson feels vaguely as if he no longer has a purpose. He doesn't know a third of what happened between those two, and it makes it hard for him to help House because he's still not quite sure who to blame for the whole mess. He doesn't think that Chase is the sole, or even the main culprit, much to House's displeasure. But he knows that nothing he can do at this point will change House's mind, so for once, he doesn't bother trying. He takes a vacation from House's world and all of the drama that encircles it, and he spends the time with his wife instead.

House hates. Everything. Chase especially, but he's an equal opportunity employer and hates Cameron and Foreman, too. He hates the way that the world around him is being pieced back together when he feels like it should be lying in ruins. So Vogler had left. Whoop-de-freaking-do. What did it matter? He can't stand the way everyone is smiling and acting like the world's become a better place in the span of two days, because it hasn't. The world has become much worse, darker and lonelier and more painful. He feels like the only one who realizes this, and hates that. But he can't hate alone, so he hates everything instead.

Chase runs. He doesn't know why and he doesn't care why. All he knows is that he loves the feeling that he gets at the end of it all, where he's dizzy and losing control and can barely see straight from tears and sweat and exhaustion and can't think a single thought. He doesn't eat as much and he runs even more. Sleep is an enemy he's learned to defeat with Tylenol PM, and he doesn't care if it's dangerous to take it every night. He thinks that he might be spiraling out of control, but then Wilson calls and he has a normal conversation. He's not out of control. He thinks that he might be doing this on purpose, because he was a bad person—and bad people need to be punished.

oOo

"Chase?"

"Hey."

"I didn't, uh, interrupt anything, did I?"

"I was just running."

"Oh."

"What do you want?"

"I… Well, see, Vogler's gone."

"What d'you mean, gone?"

"I mean Cuddy told him to leave and take his money with him, and the board agreed. On Wednesday."

"You were rehired, I take it?"

"Yeah, Cuddy called me right away."

"Good. You didn't deserve to be fired—that was ridiculous."

"You didn't deserve it either."

"That's for me to decide. Why are you calling?"

"I wanted to talk to you. In person."

"About what?"

"Just… things."

"House."

"Maybe a little. Meet me at Panera Bread on Thursday, around one?"

"The one at the university?"

"No, the other one. University's too obvious. House'll be there in ten minutes."

"All right. I'll see you there."

"See you."

oOo

Vogler was gone.

It was nearly a week after his departure, but Cuddy had trouble remembering it. She was used to checking in with him about details, to his unannounced visits to her office and cat-and-mouse politics, and to suddenly be free of it all was a tad frightening. Things around the hospital adjusted fast, falling back into the rhythm they'd kept for years before Vogler had dropped in, and things went back to normal almost as soon as everyone was done gossiping about how Cuddy was still clinging to a one-night stand that she and House had had years ago, and was hoping that by saving his sorry ass, he'd be grateful enough to give it another go. This rumor died a very quick, painless death.

She was also happy to see House recovering. He had taken on a case and was currently slave-driving his two remaining ducklings, and was even doing his clinic duty—after some prodding, insisting and threatening from Cuddy. Wilson had also been rehired and given his original position back, and thank god he'd only been gone a day, because otherwise the paperwork would have been processed, and a nightmare to undo.

They had decided to continue with the discounted clinic, because it had ended up being a very good idea. The fact that it had come from Vogler didn't mean that it was inherently evil, despite what Hernandez had said when someone had brought up the idea of making the clinic free again.

Cuddy didn't feel guilty about sending Vogler away—not really. She hadn't done it solely to save herself or House, or even Wilson. Vogler had been out of control, and she had had to stop him before he gained too much power, too much momentum, and took her hospital into dangerous places. The Dean of Medicine over at Princeton General had personally told her that he thought she was crazy to send away 150 million dollars, but he didn't understand. Frankly, she didn't give a damn what anyone else thought about it. She'd done it all to protect the hospital, and if she could do it all over again, she wouldn't have done it the same—she would have refused the smarmy bastard the moment he'd walked into her office, end of story.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of the door opening, but Cuddy relaxed when she saw that it was only Wilson.

"Hello," she said, hoping that this wasn't about House. She much preferred it when Wilson just stopped by to ask her how she was doing and how her day was going.

"Hi," Wilson said. He rubbed the back of his neck.

This alerted Cuddy that whatever it was he had to say, it wasn't going to be good. Chances were it had something to do with House.

"I…" Wilson trailed off for a moment, and then he dropped his hand and looked Cuddy in the eyes. "I think that you should rehire Chase."

At first, Cuddy thought he was joking and almost started laughing—but then she caught sight of his face and realized that this was no joke. For whatever reason, Wilson was completely serious about this. "I trust you're going to give me several good reasons," she said sharply, although it came out harsher than she had intended it to.

Wilson winced. "I know you think that he… Chase made a mistake, three months ago. Vogler came to him and offered him protection in exchange for information about House's activities. But after he agreed, he was trapped. Anything Vogler wanted, Chase had to give it to him."

"Wilson," Cuddy said, shaking her head, "I need doctors who know how to say 'no' to someone."

"It took _you_ three months to say it," Wilson said pointedly.

Cuddy swallowed, suppressing a wince of her own as Wilson's point hit home. "Where would he work? ICU is practically overstaffed, and the ER is ready to go on strike. I suppose we could put him in NICU, but Princeton General has a much better unit—any idiot would go there first."

"I would put him back with House," Wilson said. He crossed his arms, as if daring Cuddy to challenge the idea.

"They would charge you with accessory to murder," Cuddy said seriously.

Wilson smiled slightly. "I don't think that House would kill him. Maybe come close to it, but… I think that they both need a little closure. Especially House. You know that he'll hold a grudge longer than he can actually remember what it was for in the first place."

Now, Cuddy was skeptical. "You're hoping that House will forgive Chase?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "It's been five years and House still hasn't forgiven—"

"I know that," Wilson said impatiently. "But what Stacy did to him, he has to live with every single minute of his life. He's constantly reminded of it. Chase betrayed him, too, but not in the same sense. He hasn't done anything—nothing really damaging. Just lied to him. Betrayed his trust, that's all. You should know that."

"I don't think that Chase is going to want to come back," Cuddy said. "The whole hospital still thinks that House has been raping him for the last two months. He'd be a walking charity case."

"I can convince him," Wilson said stubbornly, and his jaw was set.

"If you can convince him to come back," Cuddy said slowly, "then I'll do it."

A wide grin split on Wilson's face. "Great! Thanks."

"And you'll be the one to tell House," Cuddy added as the unpleasant realization that someone would have to do the task suddenly materialized in her mind. "I'm not dealing with him."

Wilson nodded, some of his happiness fading. "Sure. I'm going to go, um…"

"Yeah," Cuddy said, waving her hand. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do," Wilson said simply, and then he turned around and left.

Cuddy sure hoped that he did, because every single one of her instincts was telling her that this was one of the worst ideas ever put into practice.

oOo

Wilson had a lunch date. With "R" at Panera Bread, at 1:00.

This, Wilson had moronically written down in his day planner. House didn't know who "R" was (Roxanne? Rachel? Rowena?) but he knew that it was important because it had been written with red ink, and Wilson had at least ventured towards the idea of keeping it a secret, because Panera Bread wasn't exactly what you would call 'close' to the hospital. Obviously, House needed to find out what Wilson was trying to hide.

House had considered calling Julie and asking her to meet him at Panera at 1:00, just to ensure mass pandemonium, but he vetoed the idea as he remembered that Julie hated him and wouldn't meet him even with three security guards and a sniper in her entourage. So instead, House was going to follow Wilson. There were only two Panera Breads close by, and the larger, nicer one was at Princeton University. So Wilson would naturally go to the smaller one.

Wilson left at 12:30—no doubt to ensure that he would be early, because Wilson did neurotic things like that—and House followed five minutes later after sending Cameron and Foreman on a wild goose chase for a tumor. He was careful to take the long way, because he knew how sharply his lead foot contrasted with Wilson's granny-driving.

It would have worked out perfectly if it hadn't been for the stupid construction. House got caught in a dirt-and-traffic-cone jungle for nearly fifteen minutes, muttering curses and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel the whole way through. He inched the 'Vette along, watching the area up ahead where the congestion had finally cleared. Traffic was not very sympathetic to people who needed to get to Panera Bread in order to spy on their friends.

But he eventually got out of the mess and to the Panera Bread, mood only slightly fouled by the hold up. He pulled into the back parking lot and parked in one of the very last spots—just in case Wilson and "R" had decided to sit at a table with a view of the parking lot. Much as he loved his car, it was quite recognizable. He spotted Wilson's Volvo up near the front of the building.

House got out of the car and grimaced slightly as he realized that there was only one entrance. There was no way he would be able to do anything subtle now. He'd have to forgo the bit of eavesdropping he'd planned to do before announcing himself, and skip right to the part where he crashed Wilson's date. It was somewhat disappointing, but he'd get over it. The look on Wilson's face would be entirely worth it.

Pushing open the door, House was assaulted with the smell of fresh bread and soup and something else that smelled incredibly good. But he quickly forgot about it as he looked around the tiny place and immediately spotted Wilson sitting at a table with—

His stomach dropped like a stone as he realized who "R" was.

Neither Chase nor Wilson had taken note of his entrance, and House thought about turning around and leaving before one of them did, but his curiosity won. Why the hell was Wilson meeting the backstabbing traitor in Panera Bread? He remembered that Wilson had tried to talk him into forgiving Chase a week or so ago, but he'd dismissed it as one of those ideas that Wilson would pick up for a few hours, pursue, and then get bored with. Clearly, he'd been wrong. But what could they have to talk about, and why did it have to be now? And here?

He was determined to find out.

"How quaint," he said loudly as he approached the table. "Is this the I Got Fired By Vogler club? I want an honorary membership, at least—it was a close call."

Wilson sighed.

"Hi, House," Chase said quietly, without looking up.

House gave him a once-over. It could have been his imagination, but Chase looked a little thinner, and his face looked like he'd been in a bar fight a few days ago. "Wilson, I thought you were on a date. What are you doing with this worthless piece of shit?"

Wilson straightened and glared at him. "Don't call him that. We were just talking. I didn't realize that I had to report to you every time I wanted social contact."

"Talking about what?" House asked.

"Why do you care?" Wilson shot back.

"He could be manipulating you," House said, jerking his thumb in Chase's direction. "Can't trust him at all."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, go back to the hospital. Don't you have a patient?"

"Cameron and Foreman are out tumor hunting," House said, waving a hand to dismiss the idea. "What were you talking about?"

"I'm coming back," Chase suddenly said.

House stopped and turned to stare at Chase, who stared back readily even though he looked utterly terrified. House scowled. "Coming back?"

Chase swallowed. "Yeah. Going to stop me?"

"You can't come back. I didn't rehire you," House said too quickly.

"Cuddy's rehiring me," Chase corrected. "I think she has rank over you. Last I checked, anyway."

House scowled at Wilson. "This was your idea, wasn't it?"

"Well, uh…" Wilson hedged, avoiding House's eyes for a minute. "Yes. It was."

"I told you, I'm not rehiring him," House said flatly.

"You don't have much of a say," Wilson pointed out. His tone was light, making House's eyes narrow.

"I don't want him back. He disgusts me," House said evenly.

"He was your—I have no idea—your _lover_ for over a month. He obviously doesn't disgust you," Wilson said, rolling his eyes.

"Lover?" House and Chase said together, both with the same degree of disbelief.

Wilson waved a frustrated hand. "I don't know what you two were calling it."

"Fuckbuddies," House supplied helpfully.

"Right. Whatever. It doesn't matter," Wilson said impatiently. "You two can be civil to each other."

Chase snorted.

House glowered.

"Well, you can try to be civil to each other," Wilson suggested, sounding exasperated.

"We will be," Chase said, standing up. He threw down a few dollars on the table and pulled on his coat. "Thanks for lunch. I'll see you guys tomorrow."

House looked down at Wilson and promptly whacked him on the shin with his cane. Wilson's howl of pain was music to his ears as he left Panera Bread, prepared to go back to the hospital and beat Cuddy within an inch of her life until she agreed to stop this nonsense. Chase was a traitor. There was no way that he was going to walk through those doors tomorrow morning with a contract in his hand.

oOo

Unfortunately, Cuddy had chosen this day to become assertive. She blatantly refused to take back her promise to rehire Chase, and sent House away with two extra hours of clinic duty for his threats. House sulked until his team tracked him down to tell him that they'd found three benign tumors in Mrs. What's-Her-Face's liver, and one malignant one in her adrenal gland, which explained the Cushing's syndrome. House sent them off to deliver the file to Wilson (because he sure as hell wasn't going to talk to him after the stunt he'd pulled this afternoon).

The evening was spent nursing a bottle of scotch with The L Word playing on mute in the background. Eventually, when sleep would not come naturally, he downed three Tylenol PMs and let himself doze off on the couch. Subsequently, he had a dream in which seemed to mirror the goings-on of The L Word, only instead of women, there were men. Foreman and Wilson seemed to be happily together, except that Wilson was having an affair with Mr. Marx (House's old math teacher) and Foreman was prone to flirting with Cuddy (who very strongly resembled a man). Chase seemed to be in love with everyone, but—in the _dream_—House fought over him with Vogler. Then Cuddy suddenly announced that they were all sinners and would all burn in hell for their wickedness, and Foreman broke down into tears and begged for forgiveness.

When he woke up, he only had the vague sensation that he'd dreamt something decidedly odd, and he pushed it out of his mind in favor of relocating his Vicodin supply. His back protested his night on the couch as he stiffly moved around the apartment. He was not at all spurred by the knowledge that in a few short hours, he would be greeted by Chase's lying little face. In fact, he thought about calling in sick, but decided that no one—not even Cameron—would believe that he wasn't just avoiding Chase. Besides, he wasn't going to avoid Chase. Why would he? There was no reason to be afraid of seeing him. The run-in they'd had in Panera Bread had proved that they could certainly talk to each other without the assistance of brass knuckles or frying pans.

Upon arriving at work, the first thing House noticed was that Chase hadn't even had the decency to wear something that matched.

"I want a case," he said, glaring at all three members of his team. Without waiting to ensure that they would leave to go do his bidding, House turned away and limped off into his office. He almost threw his stuff down on his desk, but just in the nick of time, he noticed a coffee cup sitting in the middle of it.

House stopped, stared at the steaming red cup for a second, and then set his backpack on his chair and carefully approached the mug as if it were about to explode any second.

It might. He had plenty of enemies.

But as he came closer, it didn't explode—at least, not right away. He noticed that there was a note taped to the side of it, written in block letters with permanent marker. Squinting from where he stood, House could read it.

**QUEEN TO E8**

That cleared things up. It was Chase, trying to make amends already in his own stupid, pathetic little way. Had he not noticed that the chess board was gone? The game was over. House made a mental note to set Chase straight about this the next opportunity he had. Although, he'd have to mention that if Chase felt like making him coffee every morning, there was nothing wrong with a little servitude on his part. Free coffee was free coffee, even if it had been made by a traitor.

House yanked his backpack up out of the chair, and then set it on the ground so that he could sit down. It would be at least another hour before his team came back with something interesting, so he'd just sit here and wait for them to come back. Maybe once he'd finished his coffee, he'd go over and bother Wilson. He had a whole month of bugging Wilson to make up, after all. But coffee came first.

He picked up the steaming coffee cup and took a large gulp.

He nearly spit it out.

It was absolutely disgusting. House fought with the urge to gag, and he finally succeeded in swallowing the horrible liquid instead of spraying it all over his desk. He set the coffee mug down on the desk in a hurry, standing up to go get a glass of water. The taste had been awful.

"_I'm giving you coffee. I'm not trying to butter you up, apologize, assuage any guilt, get a favor out of you, drug you, or subtly suggest something. It's coffee. That's all."_

"_Well, geeze. Since when does it require a rehearsed speech to give me coffee?"_

"_The last time I brought you something, I practically had to deal with the Spanish Inquisition."_

"_Right. So can I have the coffee now?"_

"_It's black, top of the pot."_

"_This smells funny."_

"_There aren't any drugs in it, House. I told you that."_

"_You peed in this, didn't you?"_

"_No!"_

"_You didn't say that you weren't trying to prank me in that little list of yours."_

"_I'm not trying to prank you!"_

"_You drink it first. Here."_

"_I hate black coffee."_

"_Ah, but you hate black coffee with urine in it even more."_

"_I didn't pee in your coffee!"_

House shook his head, downing the cup of water. Chase had _not_ peed in his coffee.

oOo

"So you're back," Cameron said as she ripped open another envelope.

Chase nodded.

"Do you have any idea what kind of rumors have been going around the hospital about you?" Foreman asked, raising his eyebrows, as though he couldn't quite believe that anyone would have the courage to stand up and face such horrors.

Cameron tried not to make Chase feel like she was scrutinizing him, but she couldn't help watching him as he shook his head. She was curious about this whole thing, and Chase was bound to be more open about it than House. No one could be harder to get information out of than House.

"No," Chase said. "Are they that bad?"

"People have been saying that House… did things to you," Cameron said, quickly going back to her work. She folded up the letter and, stuffing it back in the envelope, tossing it in their unofficial reject pile. "Inappropriate things. You know. And you quit to get away from him."

Chase snorted. "That's insane," he said, shaking his head again as he pushed another potential case to the side. "House hasn't been raping me and feeling me up in dark corners."

"Why'd you leave, then?" Cameron asked, forcing herself to read over the case file instead of staring at Chase as she desperately wanted to do. She didn't want to scare him off by interrogating him. This was just a simple conversation between coworkers.

"Vogler," Chase said shortly, while Cameron resolutely kept her eyes fixed on the page. "How about this one? Eighty-seven year old with dyspepsia and hiccups for two days."

"Smoker," Foreman said immediately.

Cameron frowned, turning another page in her file. "So why did you come back? Did House give you a raise?"

"I got bored at home. Vogler left, and Wilson came by the other day and offered me my job back," Chase said. Out of the corner of her eye, Cameron saw the smoker being discarded into the growing pile of reject cases.

"So were you and House sleeping together?" Cameron pressed, finally deciding that it had been long enough and looking up at Chase. She kept her expression cool, impassive, like she wasn't intensely curiously about the whole situation.

Chase shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "I guess."

"How—"

"He's avoiding the questions," Foreman interrupted, his tone bored as he opened an envelope containing another request for a consult. "You can chase him in circles for hours—he's not going to tell you what you want to hear."

Cameron glared at him. She was never going to get any answers out of Chase with Foreman hanging around, dropping sarcastic comments all over the place.


	25. C'mon Feel The Noize

**Author's Notes: **The song that House sings is from American History X, and it's a white supremacist version of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Song can be listened to at . com/watch?vGsC0BCAwkb4 but I'm telling you, turn the volume down. Not work safe.

* * *

**Untouchable  
Chapter 25  
**_(C'mon Feel the Noize)_

"I want him gone."

Cuddy jumped out of her skin, whirling around so quickly that she nearly lost her balance. She scowled as she saw that it was only House standing in the corner, a characteristically smug look on his face. He leaned forward, his cane planted firmly between his legs, and raised his eyebrows.

"Now," House added, clearly still enjoying the fact that he'd scared her.

"You're talking about Chase?" Cuddy asked, frowning a little as she tried to remember if Wilson had said that Chase would be returning today or tomorrow.

House gave her a look that clearly said he was disappointed she wasn't keeping a day planner based on the finer details of his life. "I'm talking about the new night janitor. Can't have those guys that don't know to wash their hands proximal to distal. It's very unsanitary."

"You can hold an information session at the next union meeting," Cuddy told him.

Scowling, House steered the conversation back to the way he wanted it to go. "Chase. I want him gone."

Cuddy sighed. "I told Wilson to talk to you." She began walking down the hallway, and House followed her. "And I'm going to assume that he didn't, by the way that you're still talking to me."

"It's Wilson," House said, and without even looking behind her, Cuddy knew that House had his 'are you serious?' look on his face. "He hasn't been able to make me do something in years."

"So you're here because you want _me_ to try to convince you that Chase belongs back on the payroll?" Cuddy asked, slowing down as she reached the nurse's station, where she had to pick up the latest reports on a few patients.

"Nooo…" House said, drawing out the last syllable for at least a second or two. He stopped when Cuddy finally turned around to tell him to shut up. "I came here to tell you that I'm refusing to work with him. I'm peacefully protesting."

"This isn't peaceful. It's harassment," Cuddy said, going back to the nurse's station. "Excuse me—I need the updates from rooms 1789 and 1745. Thank you."

House was silent for a beat. "It's peaceful for me. I could be doing all sorts of obscene things to get my way, but I figured that I'd give you the chance to cave first."

"I'm not caving on this. Chase is here to stay. If you've got a problem, go talk it out with Wilson," Cuddy said. She gratefully accepted the two clipboards that were handed to her, and she turned around to head back to her office. "Learn how to work with people you hate."

"I'm not working with him," House said, continuing to follow her down the hallway like a persistent dog on the trail. "Fire him. Bribe him. I don't _care_."

"Go away," Cuddy said, rolling her eyes.

House was quiet again, but she heard him stop and suck in a deep breath. Almost afraid of what was going to come out of his mouth, Cuddy turned around to find out what he was doing. She was just in time to see him begin singing at the top of his lungs.

"_Mi_-_ine_ _eyes have seen the glory of the trampling of the zoo!_" House half-shouted, causing passing patients to stare. A passing teenager in a wheelchair looked positively fascinated. "_We have washed ourselves of—_"

Cuddy reached up and slapped a hand over his mouth, just in time.

House ducked and freed his mouth, but he didn't carry on. He apparently thought that his point was proven, because he gave Cuddy a victorious smile and then limped away. Cuddy watched him go, more relieved because he hadn't bitten her hand than that he hadn't gotten the chance to shout racial slurs down the hospital corridors. Chase wasn't going anywhere. If nothing else, at least, it would be entertaining to watch the fireworks.

oOo

House watched Chase discover the note in his lab coat, taking it out and unfolding it carefully. He was still, his face impassive as his read over the words. House wasn't quite sure what was taking so long. He'd only written three words. But then Chase's head snapped up, and House barely looked away in time. Even through the glass walls, he could feel Chase staring at him with those wide eyes—House hoped that he came storming into the office and started shouting that the game _wasn't_ over and other such dramatic things. Now that he'd intimidated Cuddy into getting rid of Chase, he could officially say that it didn't matter if the game was still continuing. It was hard to play a game if you never saw each other.

But Chase didn't come in and start screaming, because Chase had way too much self control for that. And besides that, House suspected that Chase would make his anger known in more subtle and effective ways.

Waiting until he felt sure that Chase was no longer looking at him, House reached for his cane and pushed himself out of his chair. He was going to need another Vicodin refill in a few days. Wilson would say that it wasn't actual pain, that it was just the agony of Chase's betrayal or some rot similar to that, and they would probably argue back and forth for a few minutes before Wilson gave in and wrote House another script.

"You'd better have a case," he announced as he limped into the conference.

Cameron stood up, file in her hands. "Two-year-old boy with genital sores and a fever."

"Daddy's been busy with his boy," House said, not taking the file as he passed her. He was going for the coffee machine, intent on having the cup of coffee that he'd been rudely deprived of this morning. "Boring."

"He's been in the hospital for the last four months—brain cancer," Chase spoke up, and House succeeded in not visibly reacting to the sound of his voice. "The sores are new."

"They've already checked for allergies, but his labs came back clean," Foreman said quickly, before House could say that it was probably just a diaper rash.

"Who dumped out the coffee?" House demanded, staring at the empty pot in disbelief. He needed _coffee_.

There was a beat of confused silence.

"Uh… Chase did," Cameron said slowly. "You already had a cup, and it was going cold in the pot anyway. Why?"

House didn't growl in frustration, but it was a close thing. Damn Chase.

oOo

There was a soft knock at the door.

Wilson, just back from his lunch break and thus feeling energized, set down his pen and called out for whoever it was to come in. He was hoping that it wasn't House, here to whine about Chase, or Cuddy, here to get on him about House whining to her about Chase. But as the door swung open and Wilson saw that it was Chase himself, he relaxed and smiled.

"Hi there," he said, sitting back in his chair.

Chase gave him a small smile. "Hi," he said, coming into the room. "Sorry to interrupt."

Wilson waved a hand. "It's not a big deal. Just more lousy paperwork. You aren't calling it quits so soon, are you?"

"No, no, everything's fine," Chase said, taking a seat on the sofa and resting his arms on his knees. "House is furious, you know."

"I know," Wilson said, nodding.

"He's sent me here to tell you that he wants a Vicodin refill," Chase said mildly, and he looked as if he found the idea faintly amusing. "I don't think he's going to let me do any diagnosing for a few months. Years, if he has it his way."

Wilson grimaced. "I'll see what I can do."

"It's fine," Chase said, shaking his head. "Listen, can I get the script so I can run down to the pharmacy and have it for him within the hour?"

"Yeah,'" Wilson said, shifting in his seat so that he could grab his script pad out of his drawer. House had asked him for a refill the day after Chase had been fired, and he'd barely refrained from commenting on psychological pain affecting physical pain. Barely. He'd reminded himself that a lecture was probably the last thing House needed, and had wordlessly given him the piece of paper. It had barely been a week since then, but he wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't in a position to, considering the fact that he'd went behind House's back and gotten Chase rehired.

Chase pushed himself up off the couch as Wilson wrote, and held out a hand for the script.

"Thanks," he sighed as Wilson tore off the slip of paper and let him have it. "I'll see you later."

Wilson nodded and watched silently as he opened the door, paused, squared his shoulders, and then left.

oOo

They worked through the night on the little boy. More accurately, Cameron and Foreman worked through the night in the lab, because the boy was immunosuppressed and could have a thousand different infections wreaking havoc in his body, and House made Chase sit in the conference room and not fall asleep (which was accomplished by jabbing Chase with a thumbtack any time he started nodding off). Morning came, and Cameron and Foreman had not found the answer yet. House sent them off to do a few more blood tests, and then left Chase with the threat that if he came back and found him sleeping, he'd make him clean the blinds.

He went to Cuddy's office and sat down in her chair, waiting for her to arrive.

She spotted him before she even walked in the door and rolled her eyes in exasperation, which made House grin.

"Good morning, girls," he said, looking to Cuddy and then looking six inches south.

Cuddy set her things down on her desk, drawing herself up and looking down at House. "I'm not firing Chase."

"Yes you are," House said matter-of-factly.

"No, I'm not. The point of getting rid of Vogler was to put an end to the idea of one person having free reign over everyone's lives. You don't get to decide who loses their job. I do," Cuddy said. It was clear that she enjoyed saying so.

"The point of getting rid of Vogler was to get rid of Vogler—because he was a power-hungry jackass. Chase helped him. By default, he's a power-hungry jackass too," House said, swinging back and forth in Cuddy's chair as he spoke. "And policy around here seems to be that we fire power-hungry jackasses."

"If it was, you'd have been out of a job years ago," Cuddy said dryly.

House was not impressed. "Get rid of him. You could make it look like an accident."

"I'm not having this conversation," Cuddy said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Get over it."

"Just because I employ him doesn't mean that he actually works for me," House pointed out.

Cuddy stopped at that, either weighing her options or trying to figure out what he'd meant by his last comment. Probably the latter, judging by the faintly confused look on her face. She chewed on it for a minute, and then threw up her hands. "Do what you want," she said in exasperation. "I'm not firing him."

oOo

House returned to diagnostics in time to catch Cameron and Foreman checking in with the latest lab results (and he saw Chase's head jerk up as he came in, looking suspiciously like he'd been dozing). He told Cameron and Foreman to give it a rest for an hour so that they could do another differential. They both collapsed in chairs, eyeing Chase nervously and probably wondering what he and House had been busy doing all night.

"It could be a coincidence that the sores have only broken out in the genital area," Cameron said after swallowing a large gulp of coffee.

"What do _you_ think it is? AIDS?" Foreman asked, with a slight snort.

"We should test the parents for STDs and make sure they didn't pass anything down to him," Chase said, much to Foreman's displeasure. "Including AIDS."

House was quiet for a minute, and when nobody said anything more, he made an impatient gesture and glared at them. "Come on, what else? Besides AIDS?"

"Other STDs, from the parents," Cameron said, staring at him in confusion. "Weren't you listening?"

"Good idea, Cameron," House said, nodding to her affirmatively. "You and Foreman go have more laboratory fun."

Cameron still looked suspicious. "But Chase—"

"He's ignoring me," Chase interrupted wearily, glancing from her to House. "Don't worry about it."

Mouth open, Cameron paused for a beat. "Oh."

"What are you waiting for?" House asked her impatiently.

"Nothing," Cameron said quickly.

Foreman followed her out, not sparing Chase a second glance as he did so.

"I got your note yesterday," Chase said as the door shut.

House continued to ignore him, moving over to the coffee pot for his second cup of coffee of the day.

"And you're wrong. The game can't be over, because there hasn't been a checkmate." Chase watched House go about making his coffee. "Don't you want to win, still? I thought you'd like the chance to kick my ass and make me do whatever you want in the process."

Still not acknowledging Chase, House stirred his coffee.

"Come on," Chase said, a hint of a grin forming on his face. "Teach me a lesson."

House limped back into his office with his coffee in hand, leaving Chase alone. Chase stared after him for a few seconds, and then put his head in his arms and closed his eyes. At least now that House was ignoring him, he wouldn't wake him up.

oOo

"Chase…"

Chase mumbled something and buried his face deeper in the crook of his arm, clearly trying to get away from Cameron's attempts to wake him.

"Chase, you've got to get up. We're doing another differential," Cameron prodded, resisting the urge to grab his arm and shake him awake.

Raising his head slightly, Chase blinked blearily. "House is ignoring me," he mumbled. "Doesn't matter." And then, apparently thinking that his case was rested, Chase laid his head back down and went back to sleep.

Cameron glanced over to Foreman, looking for help, but he just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"If you've got any ideas, I'll say them for you," Cameron offered hesitantly. "You did it for me when House thought that I was working for Vogler."

But Chase had fallen asleep already.

The door from House's office opened, and his voice floated into the room before him. "I want to know! Who's been zooming who?"

Cameron resisted the urge to say, "You and Chase, obviously," and let Foreman deliver the bad news. Not paying attention to House, Cameron reached out and paused, her hand hovering above Chase's arm, but she told herself that he needed to wake up, and he hadn't listened to her when she'd tried to talk him awake. So she gently grabbed his arm and shook it.

"Parents were clean," Foreman said was saying, handing House the results of the screens.

"Chase," Cameron hissed, giving him a particularly rough shake. "Get _up_."

Finally, Chase seemed to give up raised his head, scrubbing his face with his hand. He mumbled something incoherent and blinked several times, and Cameron withdrew her hand.

"Damn," House said, his eyes sweeping over the test results. "All right. Did they get the fever down yet?"

"A little. He started throwing up a little while ago," Cameron said, watching Chase to make sure that he didn't fall back asleep. Even if House was ignoring him, it was no reason to stop working entirely. Chase was a fighter and he needed to start acting like it.

"He obviously hasn't been out of the country," Foreman said, while House wrote the latest symptom down on the whiteboard. "But he could have caught something in the hospital."

"If there was an infection in the cancer ward, half the patients in there would have been dead yesterday," Chase said, sounding more awake. He stood up and began making his way over to the coffee pot.

"Bad idea, Foreman," House said as he capped the marker, not turning around. "All those little Yodas are immunosuppressed, not just this one. Unless he's getting special treatment. Son of a donor?"

"Nephew," Foreman admitted. "He's got his own room and a personal nurse assigned specifically to him."

House opened his mouth, looking a tad irate, but Cameron quickly spoke up before he could waste time yelling at them. "We'll go sweep the room and talk to his nurse. Do you want an STD screen for her, too?"

"Screen her for everything that we've checked for so far," House said, tossing the marker up in the air and catching it with his other hand (his cane was hooked over the whiteboard). "And get a history from the nurse, just for fun."

Trying not to sigh, Cameron got up from her chair. She looked over to Chase, who had just finished setting the coffee pot. "Chase—you can help me with labs."

Chase looked over to her, clearly startled that she was speaking to him. "I don't…"

"House is ignoring you," Cameron said, stubbornly ignoring the fact that House was watching both of them with interest. "So he can't forbid you from going anywhere, can he?"

"Cameron, your imaginary friend can't help you with the lab work," House said, giving her a pointed look.

Or maybe he could. Cameron sighed.

"I'm going, House," she said, giving Chase an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. Foreman, can you get the history? I can sweep the room."

oOo

Someone (three guesses who) had left a note on his desk. On a yellow Post-It note, someone had written _knight to e5—I stole this one from hospice_. The Post-It note was sticking to a glassy knight, which was sitting atop a busy chessboard. House stared at it. This set was much nicer than the last one. It was made of glass, and while his pieces were a frosty white, Chase's were clear as crystal. What was more, the board wasn't set for a new game. It looked like their old game; all the pieces were in their positions, Chase's queen lying on its side from where House had taken it in his last move. His own queen had just been taken by Chase's knight, and had also been tipped over.

He hadn't the faintest idea how Chase had remembered all of their moves. The bastard had probably been keeping track of them for Vogler, writing each one down in a little notebook for further study.

House was about to just dismantle the game, keeping true to his unsaid declaration that he wasn't speaking to Chase, when he saw that he was in position to take Chase's knight, without consequence. Chase's next move would be to put him in check again, and he could easily move out of that, so he could move around the board taking as many pieces as he could while Chase preoccupied himself with a cat-and-mouse game with his king.

That is, if he was playing. Because he wasn't.

But the thought of kicking Chase's ass was really, really tempting. He knew that his skill in chess far outranked Chase's, and if he actually sat down and thought carefully about his moves, he'd be able to pull out of the tight spot that he'd worked himself into—and to beat Chase out would feel great. Not to mention, there were all sorts of things that he could do to Chase in the meantime. Taking Chase's knight, he could… Ask him more questions about his mother. That always got to him. Or he could punch him again—but he wasn't feeling angry enough to do that. The possibilities still remained endless.

Except that he was ignoring Chase, currently, and to start playing would give Chase what he wanted. And the _last_ thing House wanted to do was give Chase what he wanted, because he deserved anything but.

Although… Chase didn't just want to start playing to involve him. Chase wanted to start playing the game again and win—so if House went along with it and kicked his ass, then he really wasn't giving Chase what he wanted, right? Actually, it would be quite the opposite. Finishing this game would send the message loud and clear that he was through with Chase, really and truly done.

It wouldn't hurt anything. The trouble was deciding what to do with Chase.

House pushed the bishop over, watching as Chase's knight merely slid off its square and onto the one beside it instead of falling. Slightly disappointed, he poked the little glass horse with his finger and watched as it fell onto the board, the little head hitting the glass of the board with a small bang. He picked up the knight and set it aside, in the gathering of the rest of the fallen pieces.

He slid open the top drawer in his desk, pulled out a pen and a piece of paper, and began writing.

oOo

Wilson had expected House to be in his office. It was where House had spent the majority of the last week, sitting in his chair and throwing his red tennis ball in the air with a contemplative look on his face even though there was no case to be solved. Wilson had assumed that just because Chase had returned, House wouldn't defect from routine—but as he stared around the office, he realized that he'd clearly been wrong. House had obviously gone somewhere.

He glanced over to the conference room hopefully, but Chase sat alone at the table.

House was probably giving Chase the same punishment he'd given Cameron. But he'd only put Cameron on unofficial house arrest for about a month, so with any luck, things would go back to normal for Chase in the next few weeks.

He was about to go in and ask Chase where House had gone when he caught sight of something that had been conspicuously absent from House's desk for a while: a chess set. It wasn't the same one as before. The last one had been crudely crafted from pieces of wood, but this one was made of glass and looked like it would be right at home next to a three-digit price tag. The game was clearly coming to a close—the board was thinner, the pieces fewer and scattered.

Taking a step closer, Wilson saw that there was a note lying atop three pawns. Ignoring the part of him that was insisting that if House were to barge in and demand to know why Wilson was sticking his overlarge nose where it had no business being, he'd never be able to justify himself, Wilson took a few more steps and stopped when he could read the writing on the scrap of paper.

In House's script, at the top, it read: _bishop-__ e5 if you want me to forgive you, you're going to have to get down on your knees and beg_. Underneath it, in unfamiliar handwriting, someone had replied: _I'm not looking for forgiveness bishop -__ c6 Check._

Wilson had a good idea of who wasn't looking for forgiveness, and sent another glance over to the conference room. Chase had his back to House's office and was just sitting there, apparently lost in thought.

He sighed read the note again, but it still said the same thing. With the vague feeling that his words were going to fall on deaf ears, Wilson left the chessboard and pushed open the door to the conference room, intent on finding out what the hell Chase was thinking.

"Nothing," Chase said with a shrug, when Wilson asked.

Wilson gave him the 'do I look stupid?' expression that he usually reserved for House.

"Honest," Chase said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"You're playing chess with him," Wilson said, nodding towards House's office. "That constitutes as nothing?"

"Look," Chase said, and then he paused and seemed to reconsider what he was going to say. He lowered his hands and exhaled. "It was really nice of you to get me my job back, but I don't need your help. I know what I'm doing."

Wilson refrained from rolling his eyes. "Can you tell me what you're trying to accomplish by bothering House?"

"No," Chase said.

"Is it because you don't know, or because you don't want to tell me?" Wilson asked, raising his eyebrows and putting his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer.

"It could be because it's none of your business," Chase said coolly as he sat back in his chair and looked up at Wilson.

Wilson shook his head slowly, sighing. "He's not going to forgive you. You have to know that."

Chase scowled. "You read the note—I'm not hoping that he'll forgive me. "

"Do you _want_ him to forgive you?" Wilson asked, moving his hands from his hips to the table.

"No," Chase said, eyeing Wilson's hands with slightly suspicion.

"Then what do—"

The sound of the door opening made him look over his shoulder, and he caught the tail end of some insult House was barking out at Cameron. Knowing that his conversation with Chase was over now, Wilson turned around and watched House come into the conference room, Cameron and Foreman filing in behind him.

"Good afternoon, Wilson," House said, waving cheerfully.

"Hi," Wilson said, wondering why House was in such a good mood. He hoped that the Vicodin script he'd given to Chase earlier hadn't been a contributing factor.

"It's not cancer," House said pleasantly. "So you can go now. Bye-bye."

Rolling his eyes, Wilson left House to his diagnosing. He didn't know what Chase was planning on doing with House and this chess game, but it wouldn't end well. It never did. If only he could somehow convince Chase that it was a lost cause, that whatever shot he'd had with House had been lost the moment House had discovered that he'd been betrayed. But it appeared that Chase actually had a backbone—he simply didn't show it very often.

Which was really just peachy.

oOo

It had been 36 hours since the two-year-old had been put under his care, and House had yet to come up with the solution. The answer. The diagnosis. Every time he sat down and tried to think, his head was too clouded with drifting thoughts and puffs of emotions to pull rational, coherent thinking out of the mess.

He had already been pissed at Chase for the Vogler thing. Then, he'd been furious that Chase had dared to come back. And now Chase was going to lie and say that he wasn't pathetically hoping to earn forgiveness?

House was livid.

He couldn't concentrate. There were a thousand awful things that he could do to teach Chase a lesson, but he was positive that there was something worse as each new idea crossed his mind. It might take hours to come up with something that was as humiliating as it was painful—and he didn't have that kind of time with a boy's life on the line. He had to take that aggression and throw it into the case.

But why was Chase doing this? Where was he getting the idea that House was some sort of magnanimous being who was willing to overlook a few mistakes? Even Wilson wouldn't be stupid enough to think that there was any hope for retribution. Maybe Chase just figured that it couldn't hurt with all the damage he'd already done. Maybe he was desperate, so desperate that he wouldn't listen to reason. There had to be some kind of irrational thinking behind it, because all this game was succeeding in doing was pissing him off. A lot.

He would teach Chase a lesson. If he pushed him hard enough, Chase would wake up and realize that it was a lost cause. All he needed was something that would push these mutant ideas—

Mutant.

Mutate.

House sat straight up in his chair as the answer came to him. Forgetting about Chase completely, he seized his cane. Time to go confirm.

oOo

"Is House still ignoring you?" Cameron asked, sort of looking at Chase but not really. She was dead tired.

Chase, who was getting another cup of coffee, shook his head. "Yeah. Don't worry about it."

"And he's just ignoring you on a whim, right?" Foreman asked suddenly, taking an interest in Chase for the first time all day.

"They broke up," Cameron reminded him, trying to convey in a look that he was being way too crass about it.

Foreman nodded, folding his arms over his chest. "Right. I know that. But they said it was because House had been harassing Chase for weeks. If it was Chase who was being tormented, why is _House_ the one who's taking revenge?"

Cameron blinked. That was a really good point.

Chase set his cup of coffee down on the table and sat, not looking at them. "Chase is still in the room, you know," he said dryly as he brought the cup to his lips.

"So why is House ignoring you, then?" Cameron asked, turning to face Chase. The new twist in the puzzle had revived her curiosity.

"I don't know," Chase said tightly, lowering his coffee and staring down into it, but not in a dejected way. His jaw was clenched.

"Why would he rehire you then ignore you?" Cameron tried, knowing that she should probably stop but unable to without first sating her curiosity.

"I don't know," Chase said again, releasing his grip on his coffee mug.

"Don't you want to—"

"It's none of your business!" Chase said, slamming his hand down on the table.

Even Foreman turned to stare at Chase, startled.

"I don't need help," Chase said through gritted teeth. "So back off."

The silence after Chase's outburst was still and stunned. Cameron felt a twinge of guilt because she knew that it really wasn't her place to know about Chase's personal life. She just felt like he was in a bad place right now, and if she were in his shoes, she would want the support of her coworkers behind her. Why Chase didn't want that wasn't entirely lost on her, but it was still difficult to swallow. She would have to respect his wishes from here on out. He was under enough stress.

Just as she was promising herself this, House barged into the conference room with his usual lack of consideration for courtesy. His eyes were blazing and his movements were hurried and erratic, which either meant that his office was on fire or he'd just had an epiphany relating to their current case. Judging by the lack of smoke billowing from his office, Cameron would put her money on the latter.

"Cold sore," House said, stopping in front of the table just before he ran into it. "Which one of the parents has a cold sore?"

Foreman frowned. "How do you know—"

"The mother," Cameron said as she suddenly remembered. She sent Foreman an apologetic look as she realized that she'd interrupted him. "She tried to cover it up with makeup."

"And you didn't think that it was important?" House demanded.

Cameron shook her head slightly. "Uh… No. House, over half the nation gets cold sores. Why—"

"He's got herpes," Chase said slowly, his voice slightly awed. "Simplex II."

"What?" Foreman said, turning his head to stare at Chase in confusion.

House tensed, and Chase looked over and a stared up at him defiantly, as if daring him to finally speak. House scowled.

"He's got herpes simplex II," House said loudly, continuing as if Chase hadn't spoken and there hadn't been a subsequent awkward pause. "And simplex I. Radiation treatment caused it to mutate to simplex II. First outbreak presents with flu-like symptoms, explaining the fever and the vomiting."

"I'll go run another lab to be sure," Foreman said, standing up.

"Just start him on acyclovir. The longer this acts up, the longer he's got to wait for his treatment," House said, now pointedly not looking at Chase.

Chase didn't look like he particularly cared, except that Cameron could feel something radiating from him. Not anger. Something more desperate, more base than anger or fury or even rage.

Foreman nodded, not noticing Chase.

House did notice the tension rolling off of Chase, and his mouth twisted horribly as he stared in silence. Finally, with obvious effort, House looked away. "Cameron—do paperwork."

"Sure," she said, her voice sounding hollow and thin in the quiet of the room.

Chase stiffly took another sip of his coffee. Cameron knew that he wouldn't go home until she or Foreman went home, because he was principled like that, but she wished that he would. The tension between him and House was almost palpable, and if they had been in the same room for another minute, she feared that they might have lost control and fallen into a brawling, shouting tangle of limbs.

She looked around and saw that Foreman had gone, and House was heading back into his office. She felt sweeping relief at first, but then she remembered that she was supposed to give House a message. Moving quickly, she stood up and hurried after House.

"House," she called after him, but he kept walking, pausing only to pull the door open. She followed. "I'm supposed to tell you tha—"

"I don't care what Chase has to say," House snarled, whirling around faster than Cameron had thought he would be able to do with his leg. "Tell him to go fuck himself."

Startled, Cameron was silent for a second. Then she took a deep breath and spoke again, her voice hard. "I'm supposed to tell you that you need to do your clinic duty. Cuddy says that she'll be checking the log at the end of the day."

Then she left, leaving House to work out what had just happened.


	26. Silence Is Golden

**Untouchable  
Chapter 26  
**_(Silence Is Golden)_

"You were supposed to do your clinic duty yesterday," Cuddy said, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Yes, Cameron told me," House said calmly, looking quite undisturbed by Cuddy's glare. "She wasn't very convincing."

"What, are you refusing to work until I fire Chase?" Cuddy asked, raising her eyebrows incredulously.

"Well, I wasn't. Until you said that. Now, I'm thinking it might be a good idea." House leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "Chase peed in my coffee—that counts as something. Harassment. Inappropriate conduct. Fire him."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I'm sure that Chase didn't do anything to your coffee. If you don't have your hours in by the end of the day, I'm going to start docking your pay."

"Why didn't you send Cameron to tell me this?" House asked, taking his hands out from behind his head and folding them across his chest.

"She's not as persuasive," Cuddy said flatly. She opened her mouth to add something more, but decided that House already knew how useless Cameron was at getting him to do anything, and shut her mouth. Looking down for a minute, she saw a new chess board sitting on House's desk. This one was made of glass, not wood, and this game was much farther along, with only the kings, some pawns and a handful of other pieces left. Not for the first time, she wondered who House was playing these silly games with.

"Was that all?" House asked, interrupting her thoughts.

It was. Cuddy nodded, gave the game a final glance, and then turned around and left House to his own devices.

oOo

When Cameron came in, snowflakes melting into her clothes, Chase was already sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. It was unusual enough that she wasn't the first one in, but that it was Chase there before her was even stranger. Chase was usually last. Well, last before House came in, because woe betide any of them who dared to be later than their boss. House was a complete hypocrite about this—as he was in most matters.

"Morning," she said, setting her bag down on the table.

Chase looked up in surprise. Clearly he'd been lost in thought, and hadn't heard her come in.

Sunlight poured in through the window, casting a golden glow over everything, and Cameron smelled something decidedly nutty about Chase's coffee. Someone must have finally replaced the hazelnut creamer. Brightening at the thought, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her hair and turned around to get a cup of coffee for herself. It wasn't until she was searching for another creamer behind the French vanilla and mocha that she realized that Chase hadn't replied to her greeting. Dammit, where was that hazelnut creamer?

She gave up finding it after a minute and settled for mocha, pouring a liberal amount into the dark liquid and stirring it about with a spoon.

"I thought I smelled hazelnut," she said as she turned around, steaming coffee in hand.

Chase shrugged. His coffee cup, Cameron noted, was untouched. A note lay next to it, and she tilted her head and squinted as she came closer to read it. Chase noticed and snatched it off the table, but not before she'd read what had been written on it: **King to E7 Enjoy**. She frowned, wondering what that was all about, but after yesterday, decided to mind her own business and keep her ruminations to herself.

"Aren't you going to drink that?" she asked, trying again to involve Chase in a conversation. Mornings were so lonely when no one felt like talking.

Chase cast a wary glance at the cup and reached out hesitantly. He brought it to his mouth and sniffed. He paused for a minute, and then took a drink from it.

Cameron wondered if Chase was checking for poison.

A faintly relieved smile spread across Chase's face as he lowered the cup. Apparently, whatever reservations he'd had about the coffee had been resolved. He took another sip, and then another. Finally, he seemed to have had enough for the moment, and quietly set it down on the table.

"Chase?" Cameron ventured, wondering if he might have gone deaf.

But at last, Chase seemed to acknowledge her presence. He offered her a strained smile. "Morning."

She nodded. "You're here early."

"I know," Chase said, nodding once in response. He reached for the coffee cup again.

Cameron frowned and wondered if Chase wasn't happy with her specifically, or if he just wasn't in a talkative mood today. Did it have anything to do with that note that had been next to his coffee cup? She looked around the room, trying to find some other reason for Chase's silence, but her eyes fell on the two coats that were hung on the coat rack. All musings about Chase suddenly died.

"Is House here?" she asked, even though she knew the coat was his and didn't really need to ask.

Chase nodded stiffly. "Clinic."

"Cuddy must have dragged him in," Cameron said knowingly, smiling a little at the thought of Cuddy chasing House down into the clinic. She knew that she shouldn't be so vengeful, but knowing that House did some sort of penance for his outrageous behavior made her feel better.

From behind the coffee mug, Chase made a noncommittal sort of noise.

"Is he speaking to you yet?" Cameron asked, it suddenly occurring to her that Chase couldn't have known that House was in the clinic without talking to House. Or Cuddy, she supposed, but when would he have seen Cuddy?

"No," Chase said, shaking his head a little. He didn't seem bothered by this.

Cameron shifted in her seat, beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable with Chase's monosyllabic answers. "I don't think it'll last very long. He only punished me for a few weeks."

Exhaling, Chase ran his thumb up and down the handle of the coffee mug. He didn't look at all cheered up by her words, and sat there in silence for a few more minutes.

"Are you still mad at me for what I said yesterday?" Cameron finally asked. "Is it me? Did House do something?"

Chase didn't appear to be interested, continuing to stare at his coffee cup. "It's nothing."

Treading carefully, Cameron kept her voice casual. "You know that if you ever need someone to talk to, or just some company, I'm always here."

Vaguely, Chase nodded. Then, quite suddenly, he closed his eyes and his thumb stopped moving.

"What's wrong?" Cameron asked, watching him closely.

When Chase opened his eyes, he immediately locked onto her, and then looked away. He stood up and grabbed the coffee cup, walked over to the sink and dumped it out. Cameron watched him go still for a whole minute, but just when she was about to get up and see what was the matter, Chase slammed the coffee cup on the counter and turned around. She watched, utterly perplexed, as he left the room without a word.

oOo

Nurse Brenda was damned good at multitasking. It was what made her good at many things in life—in particular, her job. She was also fairly good at dealing with people, which helped her along in the areas that she wasn't so good at. The only major fault that was really working against her was the fact that when she was multitasking her life and trying to deal with people at the same time, her sympathy tended to be thin, and her patience even thinner. So really, when a doctor came up to her with the typical _sweardagod, never again, I just need this right now_, she had every right to put them in their place and feel no guilt doing it. Dr. Chase was no exception.

At least, he shouldn't have been.

"Hi," he said, leaning on the counter. His face was unusually pale, except for his cheeks, which were flushed, and there was the sheen of sweat on his face. "I need a favor."

Brenda raised her eyebrows. "You need to do yourself a favor and start exercising."

Dr. Chase waved a dismissive hand. "It's an allergic reaction, don't worry. I'm going to take care of it in a minute."

"To what?" she asked suspiciously, looking around to see if anyone else was having an allergic reaction.

"MSG," Dr. Chase said.

She stopped looking upon hearing that. Relaxing now that she knew there was no mass epidemic about to break out on her watch, she went back to her computer and started working again. "Whatever it is, I'm not doing it. Last I checked, M.D. didn't stand for Master Delegator."

"It's about House. Dr. House," Dr. Chase said. He sounded quite out of breath now.

Brenda frowned. "How about you go wander off and get yourself some epinephrine, and then we'll talk?"

Dr. Chase shook his head, closing his eyes and breathing in and out heavily through his mouth. "I'll be fine. Just… I need you to erase House's clinic hours today."

"Excuse me?" Brenda said, although she'd heard perfectly fine.

Opening his eyes, Dr. Chase blinked a few times before he finally focused on her. "His clinic hours. From today. Erase them."

"Why would I do that?" she asked incredulously. "I'm not risking my job over some practical joke."

He lifted a hand, but then seemed to lose the will, and it dropped down to the counter—which he was leaning on more heavily. "Misfile it for a week. I don't care."

Brenda saved her work and then withdrew her hands, folding them over his chest. "You still haven't given me a reason."

"Because—hate House?" Dr. Chase suggested, his eyes fluttering shut. He nearly fell against the counter, but caught himself just in time. "He drugged me."

She was about to tell him that the idea was utterly ridiculous when he abruptly swayed on the spot and then collapsed. Staring at where he'd been standing only a second ago, Brenda slowly got up out of her chair and peered over the counter to see if Dr. Chase was conscious. It looked like it. Sort of. Glancing around the bustling hallway, Brenda caught sight of two nurses standing by the vending machine, watching her with wide eyes.

"You!" she barked at the shorter one. "He needs a shot of epinephrine. Get him out of here."

They looked at each other, and then the shorter one muttered something and took off down the hallway in a run to find an exam room where she could grab a syringe of epinephrine. Brenda glanced down at Dr. Chase and considered her options for a minute. Deciding that it would always be nice to have some extra leverage with the doctors, she sat down and reached for the phone to call Rachel, who was on duty in the clinic today.

oOo

"I heard about what happened," Wilson said as he parted the curtain that separated Chase from the rest of the world.

Chase, who was sitting on the bed being examined by a nurse, shrugged. "Yeah."

"I never knew you were allergic to MSG. Did House put it in your coffee?" Wilson asked, cocking his head slightly as he watched Chase shift slightly so that the nurse could check his pulse.

"I don't want to talk about it," Chase said stiffly.

Surprised by such a curt answer, Wilson took a second to recollect his thoughts. "Oh. Well, I'm supposed to give you this." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a paper football made out of notebook paper. "I haven't got a clue what it is. It's from a nurse in blue scrubs—wouldn't give me his name—on my way here."

Chase looked surprised, but accepted the football. He fiddled with it (the nurse was busy writing a few notes down on his chart), spinning it for a moment, and then he unfolded it. Inside, there was writing in blue pen, at the top, and permanent marker at the bottom.

Wilson, despite the fact that he'd reminded himself that this was between House and Chase and therefore not his business in any way several times in the last thirty seconds, couldn't help reading it. The blue ink was too light and thin to see through, but the marker shone darkly. Reading backwards, Wilson quickly found that it said: **pawn to G4 ...enjoy your coffee?** in House's handwriting. He felt a stir of amazement that they were still playing that stupid chess game.

Chase crumpled up the note in one swift motion and shoved the ball of the paper into his pocket. "Can I go?" he asked the nurse, who had finally finished writing.

She paused, and then nodded. "Don't overexert yourself. Take Vitamin B if you want to go and eat something like that again."

"I will," Chase said, quickly getting off the bed and reaching for his lab coat. He gave Wilson a glance. "See you around."

And then he left, much too fast for a person who'd been unconscious only twenty minutes ago.

oOo

Wilson went back to work and managed to go on uninterrupted for nearly two hours. And then House came barging into his office on crutches, clearly seething. Refraining from commenting, Wilson watched as House used one of his crutches to slam the door to his office shut, and then sat down on his couch.

"I want Chase gone," House said, glaring at Wilson darkly. "He tried to kill me. I want him _gone_."

"Why are you talking to me?" Wilson asked. He had a strong suspicion that this latest burst of Chase-hating was very much related to the story behind the crutches that House was currently using.

"Because Cuddy won't listen to me," House said through gritted teeth. "Said I had to do my clinic duty—I already _did_ my damned clinic duty, but she said it isn't on file—probably Chase—and she hates me and won't listen."

Fighting a grin, Wilson looked over to the crutches. "And Chase tripped you in the hallway, I take it?"

"He stole my ice guard," House said furiously. "I went out to my car and slipped—you'd think that they'd salt the fucking sidewalks around here, but _no_—and now my ankle's sprained and I've got bruises all over my back and my butt—I'm going to need more Vicodin."

"How do you know that you just didn't forget to put it on this morning?" Wilson asked calmly, though he was mentally torn between horror at House falling on the ice and laughing at how paranoid House was being about the whole thing.

"Because Chase _told me_ that he did it," House ground out, clenching his jaw again.

Wilson's eyes widened, calling his mental battle to a ceasefire for a second. "He just _told_ you?"

House opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped, and a look of profound frustration came over him.

"It's part of that stupid chess game the two of you are playing, isn't it?" Wilson asked, remembering the note he'd delivered. House must have sent that out with a random nurse, telling him to give it to Dr. Wilson with instructions to give it to Dr. Chase. Very House-like indeed.

"I can't say," House said tightly, looking like he was on the burst of another rant. "But Chase did it. The little fucker's getting revenge, I know it. He doesn't have to tell me."

"Maybe he was getting revenge for the drugs you put in his coffee this morning," Wilson suggested.

House scowled but didn't deny it.

"Maybe if you—" Wilson started to say, but he stopped as the door swung open slightly and Chase's head poked in.

"Hey, Wilson, I need…" He trailed off as he realized that House was in the room.

Almost instantly, Wilson felt the tension in the room shift. House was tense and furious, staring determinedly at the floor. Chase was staring at him, his face impassive but the emotion rolling off of him in waves. It was perfectly silent, the tension holding everyone frozen in place, afraid to move because something might shatter. Wilson felt afraid to breathe.

"I'll go," Chase said, and he slammed the door.

Wilson watched House glare at the door even thought Chase wasn't there anymore and he felt the tension lift—which was quickly replaced by profound amazement.

"When did that happen?" he asked, fighting the urge to stare after the door like House was doing. "What did you do to him?"

House looked away and his scowl deepened. "Nothing," he said, collecting his crutches. "I'm just teaching him a lesson."

oOo

House had Chase's car towed. It hadn't been easy with his newly-sprained ankle (and the crutches that accompanied it), but he'd managed to discretely swipe Chase's keys, park his car in the tow-away zone, and get the keys back without anyone noticing. As far as he knew, anyway. Chase certainly hadn't noticed it yet.

This game couldn't go on forever. Eventually, one of them was going to win and the other was going to lose—and the winner was going to be him, dammit—but he wondered how long you could keep a chess game going. How many more ideas he would have to torment Chase? There only so many buttons that you could push, especially if they were going at this pace. Today alone, there had been at least fifteen moves. Granted, there had been a few written conversations (the most recent was sitting before him), but Chase wasn't an endless well of cruel pranks and had to give up some time soon.

He didn't think that he could have been more pissed off at Chase after that night at the Valentine's Day Benefit, but he was. Right now. He was a little angry at himself because he hadn't checked to make sure that his ice guard was present at the end of his cane, but mostly at Chase. Every time he saw him, House got the uncontrollable urge to strangle him. Not figuratively—literally. He wanted to put his hands around the neck, feel the taut skin beneath his fingers and squeeze. Squeeze hard. He wanted to feel the muscles straining, the windpipe collapse inwards, the rabbit-quick pulse—and he wanted to hear the broken, ragged breathing. He wanted to look into Chase's eyes and watch the life leave them.

Not that he would admit it to anyone, but it scared him. Whenever he was near Chase, the urge rose up in him so powerfully that it was all he could do to sit there and not tackle him to the ground and—and do it.

He didn't know when the urge had become this strong. Sometime between yesterday and today. It didn't really matter.

What House was more concerned about was how long he could keep himself under control.

oOo

Cameron knew that she had a reputation as an overbearing, nosy mother hen. She had no desire to change that, really, because it was true—she cared about people. At times, she felt like she was one of the few doctors who did anymore. But having such a reputation also got annoying, at times. Like now, for instance. Cameron knew for a fact that no one in their right mind (or at least, no one who had been employed at the hospital for more than a month) would believe that she'd just _found_ the note sitting in front of her. They would immediately assume that she'd picked through several garbage cans searching for this incriminating piece of evidence.

She hadn't—and she wouldn't have done something like that in the first place, but that was beside the point—she'd found it on House's desk when she'd sat down to sort through his mail. It was similar to the one she'd seen Chase with this morning, except that there were two different scripts on the paper; one was written in pen, and the other in permanent marker.

**Pawn to G3 expect the hospital bill in your mailbox**

_pawn to g3—I'm not paying for it_

**Bishop to G3 the hell you aren't**

_Rook to f3 I'm not your bitch—you tried to kill me, I tried to kill you we're even_

**bishop to H4—I hope you like to run**

And on that cryptic note, it ended.

Cameron wanted desperately to ask Chase what was going on, even though she knew she couldn't, and even if she worked up the guts to do it, she knew that Chase wouldn't tell her anything. But seriously. What the hell were he and House doing? Every time they were in the same room, the tension alone could almost shatter the windows, but they were… playing chess and writing notes to each other? It was bizarre.

She supposed that Wilson would know. But Wilson also tended to be biased towards House's wishes, which were no doubt that this was to be kept a secret. And not to mention, Wilson was in his right mind, and would therefore be in the category of people who would assume that she'd gone looking for something like this. So was Cuddy, despite her reputation as a fair boss. It looked like she was on her own with this little tidbit of information.

oOo

The day was drawing to a close. House's ankle ached—not bad enough to bring out that wonderful gating mechanism that had occasionally delivered him from the pain in his leg, but enough to make him grit his teeth—and he needed more Vicodin. Before he went home, because otherwise he'd wake up tomorrow in a thicket of agony with no little white saviors to pull him free. This meant that he'd have to seek out Wilson soon, of course, but it could wait a few minutes. He was watching the parking lot from a window in a stairwell. Chase had left five minutes ago, and as far as House knew, he had no knowledge of his towed car.

He shifted his weight slightly, but couldn't move all that much without falling because he'd abandoned his crutches against the wall. Chase had better not take forever. He needed to catch Wilson before he left for the night or else he'd have to go to Cuddy for his prescription, and she never gave in without a lecture and several severe looks first.

Then he saw him.

Chase was walking across the parking lot with his head bent against the wind, the golden sunset making his shadow at least ten feet long. Tiny, thin flakes had begun to drop from the sky in a lazy manner, and House saw a few glittering in Chase's hair and on his shoulders. He scowled and leaned closer, waiting for the moment when Chase looked up and realized that his car was gone (and that there wouldn't be a bus coming for about forty-five minutes). The parking lot was still crowded with people who had turned up for night shift and quickly filled in the spots that the nine-to-fivers had left. Without an aerial view, Chase wouldn't be able to see his car until he was at least ten feet away from his parking spot.

Right now, he was still at fifty.

House waited impatiently. He wondered if Chase would run back up to diagnostics in some hope of catching Cameron or Foreman, or if he would resign himself to taking the bus and come back inside to look up the schedule. The former, he hoped, because the other two had already left. But if it was the latter, then House would have the pleasure of smirking at him on his way out.

Another shooting pain went down his leg, flaring in his leg and ankle at the same time. Clenching his jaw, House focused on Chase—who was now only about twenty-five feet away. His head was still down, and House wondered how he planned on seeing his spot at all if he never looked up. But it seemed that Chase had some kind of magical sixth-sense for where he'd parked his car in the morning, because he slowed and pulled keys out of his pocket as he approached where his car had been only six hours ago.

Chase looked up at last, and stopped walking.

House smirked.

Staring at the gigantic Hummer that had replaced the little hybrid that he'd had bought three weeks ago, Chase seemed to be frozen in confusion. House waited, knowing that pieces were clicking together in Chase's mind as he remembered the last thing that House had written him. He leaned forward with anticipation.

"_Yes_…" House whispered gleefully as Chase ran a hand through his hair and spun around in a circle, looking up at the sky with a—grin on his face? Strangely enough, Chase seemed to be laughing—shaking his head and laughing. It was one of the oddest things House had ever seen.

Then Chase turned around, hoisted his bag up on his shoulder and started running.

House stared, wondering what the hell Chase was thinking. He was going to run all the way home? He was probably just headed for the nearest bus stop. Or maybe he'd really lost his marbles. He'd looked practically relieved that his car had been towed, almost _happy_.

A sudden twinge from his leg reminded House that he had a Wilson to catch, and after one last look at Chase running across the white parking lot, House pulled himself away from the window. Hopping over to his crutches gingerly, he grabbed them and put himself upright, and then faced himself with the prospect of going down the stairs with three legs. It was hard enough with a cane—but he'd done it to get here, and he could do it to get out of here. The view had been well worth the trouble.

Following several tense moments of carefully crutching his way down twelve stairs, he made it to the third floor landing and pulled the door open. A few people glanced his way in mild curiosity at the sight of a man on crutches coming out of a stairwell, but House glowered and no one dared to look for very long. He took off down the hallway. Being on crutches meant that he was given an even wider berth than his cane usually gave him, and he used that advantage to fight his way through streams of people and onto the elevator just before the doors the closed.

House waited impatiently in the elevator, crammed in with four too many people, and when the doors finally opened, he burst out and made his way down the hallway. Luckily, Wilson's office was close to the elevators, and he didn't have to go very far before he was pounding on Wilson's door with his right crutch.

"Open sesame!" he shouted above the evening din of hospital corridors.

Within ten seconds, Wilson's face appeared, and he pulled the door open and stood back to let him in.

"Drugs," House said, getting straight to the point. He'd come just in time—Wilson's mostly-packed bag was sitting on his desk and the blinds had been shut for the night. "Now."

"I just gave you a refill yesterday," Wilson said patiently. He resumed his position at his desk, opening a side drawer to pull a few other things out of it.

"No, you didn't," House said slowly, his mind already churning up unpleasant possibilities. "You refilled me a week ago. More than that."

Wilson paused to give him a 'do you really think I'm going to fall for this?' look. "Right. Then why did you send Chase to go and get you a prescription yesterday?"

"I didn't," House said. "He must—Chase was lying."

Now Wilson looked amused. "So he's stealing your Vicodin, now? And then he conspired to kill you by stealing your ice guard… My goodness, what's next? Better check for car bombs before you drive home tonight."

House scowled. "It isn't funny. I need Vicodin."

"I'm not giving you more," Wilson said, either not noticing or altogether ignoring House's increasingly bad temper.

Reaching into his pocked, House yanked out the nearly empty bottle and banged it on the desk. "It's. Empty. I need more."

Wilson took the bottle and peered through the orange plastic. He sighed, and House saw him wavering. But just when he was about celebrate his victory, Wilson shook his head and lowered the bottle. "If Chase stole your Vicodin, you can go ask for it back. There's enough here to get you through to tomorrow morning."

"There isn't," House said, snatching the bottle up and rattling it. "Does that _sound_ like enough to you?"

"It's never enough," Wilson said as he shouldered his bag and gave House a stern look.

"I'm not talking to Chase," House said stubbornly, seizing his crutched and preparing to follow Wilson out the door.

Wilson snorted. "It doesn't look like you've got much of a choice. You've got something taped to your crutch, by the way. Looks like another love note from Chase."

House stopped and looked down at the silver poles. The right was clean, but the left… A little pink piece of paper, folded and taped to the outside of the crutch near the bottom, stuck out. He had a good idea what it was going to say, but peeled it off and unfolded it to read anyway.

_Rook to F1—missing something?_


	27. Violent Pornography

**Untouchable  
Chapter 27  
**_(Violent Pornography)_

House was in agony. The plan had been to take the morphine so that he could sleep through the night, and then he would take his Vicodin to get him into work and up to Wilson's office. Unfortunately, his leg had begun cramping around one in the morning, and even the morphine hadn't been able to keep the pain at bay. Wrestling with himself for nearly an hour, House finally gave in and took the Vicodin that were sitting in their little bottle next to his bed. He would have gotten up for another shot of morphine—because he always kept two shots in there—but he wouldn't have made it.

He'd barely resisted taking a shot of morphine before coming in to work this morning. He'd been dragging the stool back over to the bookcase when he'd realized that if he shot up with morphine, there was no way that he could get away with it at work. More importantly, there was no way he could _get_ to work while drugged to the gills on morphine, which would arouse suspicion. And wouldn't be helped by the fact that he'd probably be giggling by the time Cuddy called.

So he'd stopped and, with a final longing glance at the top shelf of the bookcase, limped out of his apartment and locked the door behind him.

He was here too early. But the alternative had been laying in bed, in agony for four more hours, and House had picked the hospital because at least there was plenty of room for him to pace. In the meantime, between rounds of pacing in the hallway and pressing his knuckles into his forehead in his chair, House busied himself with his next move. He was going to kill Chase when he came in. Stealing his Vicodin was below low—it was downright sadistic. House had been in agony all night. It was Chase who deserved to toss and turn in bed, in too much pain to move. But Chase didn't have a track record of girlfriends who had screwed him over like House did.

House was pacing up and down the hallways now, trying to walk off the pain. He'd deserted his crutches this morning and went back to his cane, even if it didn't help as much. The lack of Vicodin was taking its toll, and the constant swinging had been making him more nauseous. He was going to kill Wilson for doing this to him, right after he was done killing Chase.

With a scowl, House turned around and nearly began walking down the hallway again when the sound of his printer made him pause.

"House!"

He glanced over and saw Cuddy heading toward him. She didn't look happy.

Cringing, House hurried inside his office and turned around, only to remember that there was no lock on his door. Retreating to his desk as fast as he could, he managed to get behind it by the time Cuddy was opening the door. He sat down and stared up at the ceiling innocently.

"I'm docking your pay," Cuddy said, marching up to his desk and stopping just before it. "I told you to do your clinic duty yesterday."

House looked down in surprise. He'd thought that this would be about the drugs in Chase's coffee or the towing of his car—but really, he supposed that he should have known better. Chase wasn't smart enough to go and whine to Cuddy.

"I did my clinic duty," he said, turning away from her to pick up the recently-printed piece of paper. On his computer, a little bubble had appeared, announcing that he had a new email. "Yesterday. In the morning. Ask around."

"Then why isn't it in the log?" Cuddy asked, crossing her arms.

House's glare deepened, both from her words and because a particularly vicious twist of pain had just screwed into his thigh. "I don't know. Ask the nurses on duty yesterday."

"They didn't make a mistake—everyone else on there was perfectly fine. Unless you're suggesting that there's somebody out there who would deliberately go in and erase your hours from the log—"

It clicked.

"Bastard!" House swore, jumping to his feet before he remembered his ankle. Biting back a howl of pain, he gripped the desk and waited until the drill stopped spiraling into his ankle, breathing hard in pain. It was almost secondary to rage. "Chase," he panted, loud enough for Cuddy to hear. "It was Chase."

Cuddy took the opportunity to pick up the piece of paper he'd just printed. "I highly doubt that Chase would do something like that. Why do you have a copy of a newspaper clipping from 1995? This isn't… Wait."

House collapsed back into his chair, looking around to make sure that no one had entered the conference room and seen him in such a state. The lights were still dark, and no one was in there. He focused back on Cuddy, who was staring at him over the paper.

"Why do you have a copy of Chase's mother's obituary?" she asked slowly, flipping the paper over so that he could see the scanned, black and white newspaper image.

House snatched it back. "None of your business."

"Stop torturing him," Cuddy said, turning around and walking toward the door. "And do your clinic duty."

"I already did!" House shouted after her, but she ignored him as she pushed open the door and left his office.

Seizing his cane, House stood up with the obituary and a roll of tape in one hand, and he limped into the conference room. This would teach Chase to steal his Vicodin.

oOo

Foreman was the first in. He stopped and read the piece of paper taped to the door, cocked his head, and then pulled the door open and stepped in without appearing to care. Cameron followed shortly thereafter, frowning as she read the sheet and then coming in looking visibly distressed. For a few minutes, House wondered if she was going to take it down before Chase could see it, but she didn't. He was slightly surprised.

When Chase came in a few minutes later, he stood in front of the door for almost three minutes. House grinned as he came in and ripped it down, crumpling it up into a ball and throwing it into the trash can. Cameron was watching him, probably saying something that House couldn't hear through the glass, and Chase was looking oddly impassive despite the fact that his hands were shaking. House was slightly disappointed by the lack of dramatic reaction, but at least Cameron had seen it. That wouldn't mean anything good for Chase.

The show over, House grabbed his cane and took a deep breath, preparing to get up. A headache was beginning to gather behind his forehead, and it didn't do anything to improve his mood. He closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to drive home, load himself up on morphine and lay on the couch all day. He wouldn't give Chase the satisfaction.

When he stood up, House felt everything in him groan in protest. Even his stomach disagreed with the sudden movement. But he gritted his teeth and limped over to the door between his office and the conference room, scowling at his team through the glass even though none of them were looking at him.

"I want a case," he said by way of greeting. "And I want my Vicodin. Whichever one of you stole it, give it back."

Cameron and Foreman both stared at him in confusion.

"_Go_," House said impatiently, indicating the door with his finger.

They exchanged a glance and slowly rose out of their chairs.

House limped over to the coffee machine, listening to the sound of Cameron and Foreman pushing open the door and walking out into the hallway. The coffee smelled amazing. If he couldn't have one drug, he could certainly have another. And hopefully, Chase would be surrendering the Vicodin in a few minutes.

"I'm not giving you your Vicodin," Chase said.

House scowled—but only because his back was turned, and Chase wouldn't see it. He grabbed his coffee cup and set it upright. Behind him, he heard the sound of a zipper running and wondered if Chase was hoping for a blowjob. But the zipper was too long, and anyway, a second later there was the sound of paper fluttering through the air.

"Rook to F6," Chase said, and the sound of the zipper came again.

He was curious, but not enough to turn around and give Chase what he wanted. Instead, House poured steaming black coffee into his coffee and made a split second decision to add creamer this morning. He needed all the sugar that he could get. Not picky, he randomly picked up one of the three creamers that were sitting next to the coffee and dumped a liberal amount into his cup. The air smelled strongly of mocha and coffee.

House picked up his coffee and turned around, ready to head over to Wilson's office and tell him that he'd asked Chase for his Vicodin back, to no avail. Then maybe Wilson would give him some Vicodin. But Chase had set a piece of paper on the table, on the corner nearest him, and had already busied himself with today's crossword puzzle. His curiosity getting the better of him, House limped over to the table and snatched up the piece of paper.

He almost dropped his coffee.

Almost. His hand went slack for a split second, but he caught himself quickly enough that only a little bit of the liquid sloshed over the side and onto his hand (where it burned, probably, but he was too wrapped up in his own shock to really feel it).

It was sort of ironic that Chase had photocopied a newspaper clipping, too. Only his had been an obituary and this… This was a wedding announcement. For Stacy and Mark Warner.

oOo

Wilson felt almost guilty about last night. He probably should have taken House's word for it and just written him the extra Vicodin script. It wasn't out of the question that in the heat of their stupid game, Chase had stolen House's Vicodin from behind his back—both of them had been pushed to the limit and back again over the last week or so. And if House hadn't been lying, that meant that he was surely out of Vicodin by now, going into withdrawal, and his ankle was sprained, too…

Okay, so maybe he felt really guilty.

It was definitely guilt that had motivated him to leave his office and walk over to House's in the ten minute gap between appointments. He had to be fast, even though a conversation with House never went quickly if you had somewhere to be, but he just needed to know that House was okay. It took less than ten seconds to write a script for pain meds, and once House had that, he would probably be out like a shot to the pharmacy. So really, ten minutes would be more than enough to ensure that everything with House was fine.

But when Wilson pushed open the door to House's office, it was not House who was in the room, but Chase.

"Hi," Wilson said, stepping in and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Chase, who had been standing in front of House's desk, whirled around to face Wilson. His eyes were wide. "Hi."

Glancing over to the conference room to make sure that House wasn't just refilling his coffee, Wilson sighed. "Where's House?"

"He went home," Chase said brusquely, shoving his hands into his pock—wait a minute. Why was Chase wearing his coat? And why did he have his messenger bag over his shoulder?

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

Chase shook his head. "Nothing. House went home. I'm going home. Everything's fine." He started to walk forward, but Wilson stepped back so that he was fully blocking the doorway. "Let me go."

"Did you take House's pills?" Wilson demanded.

"I can't tell you. Let me go," Chase said. It sounded like he was forcing himself to speak slowly.

"And you stole his ice grip?" Wilson continued, spreading his feet apart slightly so that he was firmly planted in the ground. Just in case Chase decided to come charging at him—because he looked desperate enough to. There was something wild about the way he was moving.

"I need to go," Chase said, his eyes darting around the room. "I need to go, Wilson."

Wilson had no intention of letting him out of the room in such a state. "Where do you need to go?"

"Nowhere," Chase said immediately.

He refrained from rolling his eyes. "You look like you're about to hyperventilate. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but you have to calm down before you go anywhere."

Chase shook his head. "You don't understand," he muttered. "You don't—I just need to go. Let me go."

"Tell me about the chess game," Wilson tried, reaching out to grab Chase's arms.

Taking several quick steps back, Chase looked around the room. He hesitated for a split second and then tore at the door leading from House's office to the conference room. Wilson tried to go after him, but came to an abrupt halt at the doorway. He stood there and watched Chase walk down the hallway, head down and his hands in his pockets. For a minute or two, he considered going after Chase, but quickly realized that it was a lost cause. Clearly, something had snapped in Chase when it had snapped in House. He'd tried to help a helpless situation for too long now—it was out of his hands and far beyond the parameters of what was his business. It was time to let House and Chase work things out themselves.

He turned around and almost left, when he caught sight of the chess board. All that remained on the board were two kings, standing on opposite ends of the board.

oOo

Chase pounded on House's door three times.

It was still snowing outside, flakes swirling around in bitter wind currents, but he didn't care. His foot twitched and he resisted the urge to knock again. His hands went deeper into his pockets and he found the bottle of Vicodin. Waiting, he untwisted and twisted the cap with his fingers and didn't bother thinking about what would happen if the cap fell off and all the pills went spilling out into his pocket.

Maybe if the wind weren't howling so, he'd be able to hear if House was actually moving.

Twisting the cap of the pill bottle more viciously, Chase blew out a breath and watched as the tiny cloud was almost instantly swept away by the wind. He wasn't sure how long he would wait for House open the door. He couldn't stand here all day. But he needed to see House, and he wouldn't be able to sleep until he did, so standing here all day would actually be more productive than going back to his apartment. Something in him was telling him that the logic of this made no sense at all, but he was beyond caring. What he needed was—

House.

The door had finally opened.

Seizing his chance, Chase closed his hand around the bottle of Vicodin and held it up for House to see. His hands were bare, and the wind bit into them.

House's gaze immediately turned to the Vicodin. He raised his eyebrows, and even though it looked like he hadn't slept in days with bloodshot eyes and a sickly pallor to his unshaven face, it was as if he was in complete and total control here—but he wasn't, he couldn't be, because Chase was so far from in control that he thought that he might be completely psychotic. He felt something bubbling up inside of him at the sight of House, so calm and cool, and he let it pour out of his mouth.

"Yell at me."

House blinked, thrown for a second.

Chase shoved the bottle of pills into his hand, not caring that he'd probably just surrendered the only thing that was keeping House from slamming the door in his face. "Yell at me, yeah? The thing that you do when you get angry and start shouting?"

He saw the hand on the door as House went to shut it, and something in his mind clicked and broke at the same time.

Grabbing House's forearm, he pushed the door open and stepped inside the apartment. "I need you to yell at me," he said, slamming the door shut. "I can't do this." He dumped his messenger bag on the floor. "I can't sit there and play these silent games of yours. I don't care if you don't get it. You've got to help me, because I can't—" He kicked off his shoes. "—do this, I can't. I need you stop writing fucking notes and _speak_ to me already because I can't. Yell at me." He ripped off his coat and let it drop to the floor. "Yell at me, okay?"

He was nearly panting—or maybe it was hyperventilating—but he stood there, waiting for House to say something. Anything.

But House was silent, leaning on his cane with the orange bottle in his hand.

"Please," he whispered, breathing faster as he waited. His heart pounded like he was going to be sick, and he felt dizzy. "Please, say something, please."

Then House was strangling him.

Not figuratively. Literally.

Chase felt the large hands closing around his throat before he could react, even register the fact that House was trying to kill him, and he couldn't scream even though he wanted to. There was pressure around his neck, cutting off his air supply and making his body spasm. He couldn't breathe, he needed to breathe, but he couldn't fight House. Pain was shooting into his skull and down his spine and his hands banged against the wall fruitlessly. Panic was surging through him like electricity, lighting every nerve ending on fire, and his mind twisted and darkened to uselessness. Strong hands were still wrapped around his neck and House's blue eyes were staring down at him relentlessly.

Blue. He saw black dots, things swam, and the panic this time was all encompassing. Every cell in him needed this to end, was willing to do whatever it took to be free because it didn't matter anymore, just that he needed air. He needed to breathe. He needed to be free of these hands that were closing in around his world and quickly zeroing in on where it hurt the most. He wasn't thinking, just reacting on base impulses coming from efferent nerves from the spinal cord, not even taking the ascending and descending tracts and bothering the brain with the knowledge that he was being strangled because—

His mind stopped analyzing his own death and did the first thing that came to mind.

He snaked his arms through House's, grabbed his head and pulled him forward into a kiss. He had no air to put into it but he was past caring. His body felt limp and dizzy and the only thing connecting him to the world were those hands squeezing his neck and the mouth that had begun to pull his face upward, away from something else, and he kissed harder by reflex. If this was something, if it was anything at all, then he would cling to it because he couldn't cling to those hands—they were trapping him and this was saving him, pulling him upwards and out of the darkness and into…

He felt the hands release him, and he slumped backwards, the world around him fading to black—but someone caught him before he could fall and pulled him into another kiss, yanking him back from unconsciousness.

Chase broke it, gasping for air, staring without seeing and breathing without sucking in air to his lungs, but it wasn't long enough and House was on him again. He was in agony and yet he loved every second of it, because something else had woken up in him and he felt like he'd just been reborn. New adrenaline surged through his veins. He gripped House's shoulders and came up for more air, because he was still nauseous and the only thing running through his mind was that he needed to breathe and that he needed House. House was saving him, lifting him up from the dark places of the world and delivering him onto new ground, steady ground, and he was in ecstasy.

He felt like if he let go, House would be ripped away and leave him alone forever, and fear shot through him. He needed to feel that this was real, needed to feel that House was real and wouldn't be torn away from him in the next hour because he was _here,_ but the only thing he could do was bring him closer and touch more. He felt so alive. He hadn't been able to feel anything for days, nothing but numbness and a muted sense of loss. But now emotions were crashing over his head like glass plates, striking him senseless.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, desperate to say it, because maybe if the words got out of his head and into the air they'd stop hurting so much. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I'm—"

Something hot was running down his face, and Chase realized dimly that he was crying—sobbing, gasping for breath and still pleading for forgiveness in between breaths—and he couldn't care less. House was running his hands through his hair and muttering something that he couldn't understand for all of the sensory implosions that were spinning around him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Again and again, because it was the only thing he could say that might bring an end to this. Because it was true. If there was only one truth that he could prove to the world, it was that he was sorry for everything that he'd done—he regretted it with every breath, wished he could take it back more deeply with every passing second until he thought that his heart might explode out of his ribcage because it was beating so hard.

House was muttering something, and suddenly he stopped and clapped a hand over Chase's mouth.

He stared up at House in surprise, too overwhelmed and dizzy and lost to even think about protesting.

"Shut up," House said roughly. "Fucking shut up about it because you're forgiven. All right?"

Chase was still panting with tears drying on his face, and he couldn't have spoken even if House's hand hadn't been covering his mouth, so he nodded. Something sweet and wonderful began washing over him as he absorbed the fact that House had spoken to him. After more than a week of silence, it was over—he was forgiven. He was forgiven.

"Good." House removed his hand and stepped back, stooping down to pick up the dropped bottle of pills.

Chase fell against the wall, head still spinning, gasping for air.

House stood upright, opening the bottle and dumping a Vicodin into the palm of his hand, but he didn't throw back his head as he usually did when he popped a pill. But he did close his eyes in relief as he swallowed, and Chase was too busy trying to catch his breath to feel guilty. He knew that he probably should, but at the moment, he was fighting the urge to sink into unconsciousness.

Chase realized that House was eyeing him with an unfamiliar expression, and he tried his best to get himself under control. Tried to close his mouth and stand up straight, look House in the eye… But he couldn't. Not all at once.

"As much fun as it would be to fuck you through the mattress," House said, picking up his cane from where it had been hooked on the couch, "you look like you're about to pass out. Definite mood killer."

He was about to shake his head because he felt like he was drowning without House's touch, but the sense of vertigo that came over him was too powerful. He brought in more air, gasping, and his neck felt like was swelling. It probably was. But House was doing something, and he forced himself to focus on him.

House was coming closer, and Chase felt him grab his forearm. Stumbling, he allowed himself to be pulled down the hallway and into the bedroom. House told him to lay down and he complied. Right away some of the nausea and vertigo receded—although it spiked when the bed dipped as House climbed in. It occurred to him that House probably hadn't been able to sleep last night without his drugs, for both the pain and the withdrawal. He thought he felt House's hands touching his neck, but it was like a feather running across his skin, and Chase decided that it was just sizzling nerve endings instead. He heard House mutter something about how he wouldn't be able to fall asleep with the light on, but ignored it and let himself drift off into unconsciousness.

oOo

Chase fell asleep almost instantly. House, however, was not so unburdened.

He'd strangled Chase—hell, he'd almost killed him. The thought very much unsettled him, and he was glad that Chase had been too out of it to fully understand what was going on. Part of him was dreading what would happen when Chase woke up and realized that he'd come within inches of dying this morning. Betrayal to Vogler or no, it was no excuse to take a life. What if he lost control like that again? What if he lost control and Chase wasn't able to stop him like he'd somehow managed to do today?

The sound of ragged breathing next to him reminded him of how close he'd come to losing everything only a little while ago. He fought off a wave of nausea that didn't stem entirely from the pain in his leg and ankle. The pills were helping with that, taking the edge off the pain and allowing him to relax his body, even if his mind had other ideas.

But what could he do to ensure that it never happened again? Short of pushing Chase out of his life, there was no way he could guarantee that it wouldn't happen—and he couldn't push Chase out of his life if Chase didn't want to go. Neither one of them would be able to stand it; this last week had been proof enough of that. But if Chase came to and realized that what had happened couldn't happen again, and that he wasn't willing to take the risk that it would… Then House could deal with that. He could let Chase go, because Chase had every right to leave him after that display.

For now, though, Chase was asleep. House would talk to him when he woke up. He would tell him that he could leave if he wanted to, and then if Chase said that he was afraid to be alone with him anymore, House would let him go without a fuss. And deep down, even deeper than the flickering of hope he was trying to squash, he knew that Chase was going to leave him. Why would he stay? There was nothing here for him.


	28. Maybe I Like It This Way

**Untouchable  
Chapter 28  
**_(Maybe I Like It This Way)_

**A month later**

"I gotta go," House said as Stacy sat down in the chair opposite him. He glanced up at her.

"No, no, he'll be here," Stacy assured him quickly. "I'm sure he's just running a little late."

House glared. "He's cancelled two exams. He's not gonna—"

"He's scared of you," Stacy said, cutting him across. She fixed him with a pointed look, telling him that she knew he that he wasn't going to leave because if he hadn't wanted to be here, then he wouldn't have shown up in the first place.

"Sure. The ex-boytoy. Yeah, that makes sense," House said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"He wasn't scared before," Stacy said. She reached for her glass and took a sip.

"And that makes even less sense, because before, I was single," House pointed out, before he remembered that he hadn't informed Stacy of the loss of his status as a bachelor.

Stacy raised her eyebrows. "You're not single?" she said incredulously. "I think you're lying to me, Greg."

"One of my fellows forgot the rule about never having sex with your boss," House said casually. "Multiple times. That was really messy. But we got it straightened out."

"You'll have to introduce us," Stacy said wryly, still looking like she thought he'd just made it up.

"If your hubbie lets me check him out," House said. He glanced down at his watch. "He's twenty minutes late. I'm out of here."

He had his cane in hand and was about to push himself out of his chair when Stacy grabbed his hand and gave him a pleading look.

"Please," she said, the desperation shining through her dark eyes.

House considered really leaving her there, because the damsel in distress act never worked on him, but… Just a little while more. He could do that for an interesting case, as they'd been seriously lacking in anything more mysterious than appendicitis hiding behind situs inversus. Ten more minutes, and then he was really out of here.

"He'll be here," Stacy promised.

"Why? Because he loves you and does everything he's told?" House couldn't resist saying—but the glare he received in response wasn't too awful.

"Because I didn't tell him you'd be here," Stacy said, rather smugly.

Lacking for something smooth to say in reply to that, House focused on her necklace, which had been turned around since Stacy had sat down. "Jesus is breaking the tenth commandment," he said, nodding at her chest.

Stacy looked down, and House saw her smiling as she fixed the cross so that Jesus was facing away from her.

"Stace?"

A man in a tan suit had come up to the table, looking at House in confusion. House assumed that this was the Mr. Playing-Hard-to-Get Mark Warner.

"What's going on?" Mark asked, going back and forth between Stacy and House.

"Hey—" Stacy stared, but House seized the opportunity.

"Hi," he said, holding out a hand. "I'm Greg House. You must be Matt." He smiled pleasantly.

"Mark," Stacy corrected, glaring at him.

"Mark Warner," Mark said as they shook, as if Stacy hadn't just made that obvious. "Don't get up." He sat and kissed Stacy on the cheek, whispering something that House couldn't hear over the murmur of voices in the restaurant. Stacy said something in reply and apparently all was well, because they both turned to him and smiled.

"Hi," Mark said, smiling at him. "Wow. Greg House."

House barely tolerated the smile. "Yeah. Wow."

"No, I haven't been avoiding you," Mark said, nodding and grinning in an almost embarrassed way. "I just didn't want to waste your time. The other doctors checked me out and they said it was just stress. College season—kids, parents… They're all over me."

House nodded in agreement. "Makes sense to me."

"Greg—"

"What do you want me to do?" House asked her, shrugging his shoulders.

Stacy glared at him accusingly. "You said you'd check him out."

"He says he's healthy," House said, holding a hand to indicate the very healthy Mark sitting across from him. "What's to check out?"

Mark looked relieved. "Sorry for the mix-up. But I'm glad the two of you got the chance to catch up. Looks like you're having fun."

"Lots," House said witheringly. "Telling Stacy about my latest catch."

"Didn't think the boat would be good for you, what with that leg," Mark said with a steely note to his voice.

"No, no, no," House said, waving his hand in a way he knew made him look slightly drunk. "No, I don't go fishing. I was talking romantically, old boy—you haven't been on the dating scene in a while, have you?"

He watched Mark clench his jaw. "Not since I met Stacy," he said, putting an arm around her possessively.

House had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Hadn't he just _said_ that he wasn't on the market? "To relationships!" he said loudly, holding up his drink.

Mark grabbed his drink and held it up, clinking it against House's glass, and they both downed the water—House finished first because he'd been sipping on his while waiting with Stacy (who was currently giving him a very indignant look). Mark nearly slammed his glass down on the table after finishing, and House silently counted down the seconds until the drugs would kick in.

Stacy was still glaring at him, and the silence was just stretching into awkward when Mark's eyes suddenly began to cross. Having been ready for it, House reached across the table and eased his head down as Mark lost consciousness. Out of the corner of his eye, House saw a paramedic with a stretcher coming into the restaurant.

"Someone call 911 for a wagon to Princeton-Plainsboro?" the paramedic called, and House raised his hand.

"_Garçon_!" he said loudly, snapping his fingers to get the man's attention. Around him, people were looking worriedly at each other and putting down their forks. "It's okay, ladies and gentlemen, nothing to worry about. Unless you had the veal." Because a little pandemonium never hurt anyone.

"You dosed him!" Stacy said incredulously.

"I told you I'd check him out," House said, grabbing his cane and stepping back so that Mark could be loaded onto the stretcher. "I was a little worried they were gonna get here before he passed out. Would have been tougher to get him to drink." Stacy was giving him a dirty look, so he quickly moved on to something else. "He'll be admitted for the night and I'll throw him at my team first thing in the morning—feel free to drop by and contribute."

Stacy gave him one last glare and then turned around and hurried after the paramedics.

oOo

Chase hadn't been fully asleep when House had come home, but he hadn't been fully awake either. He was definitely swaying more toward sleep at this point, and only dimly registered the sound of the door opening and House whistling something cheerful, and he didn't flinch away from the light that came streaming in from the hallway. He didn't even jump when House poked him in the back with his cane.

"Go away," he groaned, knowing that it wouldn't do any good. "I don't care."

"I told Stacy about you," House announced.

Had he been more awake, he would have sat bolt right up in bed to stare at House. As it was, he'd been on the verge of falling asleep only minutes ago, and the most that he could muster was to let his eyes flutter open for a second. "You did what?"

"Well, I didn't tell her that you're you. Just that I'm not single," House said. He limped out of the room and flicked off the hall light, and Chase heard him moving around in the dark. "She's hoping for an introduction tomorrow."

"You really don't like her, do you?" Chase asked, closing his eyes and winding down now that he'd appropriately responded to House's announcement.

"I have a good reason to not like her," House reminded him pointedly. The bed groaned as he got in.

"Yeah, but I bet you didn't try to kill her," Chase said lightly, but he felt House freeze and he mentally kicked himself. The strangulation was still on the list of Things We Don't Joke About. Stacy herself had recently been taken off of it. "Sorry," he muttered.

"We're treating her husband," House said, moving along and ignoring the awkward moment like he usually did. "Tomorrow morning. Should be a fun time."

"Mm…" Chase said noncommittally. It didn't sound like it was going to be any fun at all, actually, because he hated the idea of House's ex hanging around the conference room for hours at a time. But there wasn't anything he could do about it but quietly wait it out. He just hoped that it wouldn't take them longer than a day to solve the case and send Stacy and her husband on their way, back to wherever they had come from—Rolling Hills or something annoyingly suburban like that.

"I can hear you thinking," House said, yanking on his hair.

Chase barely held in a yelp of surprise. "House! Leave me alone." He rubbed at the back of his scalp and scowled into the darkness, the pain having woken him up. It would be at least another fifteen minutes before he fell asleep now.

"I don't cheat," House said suddenly. "If that's what's got your knickers in a twist."

It scared him, sometimes, how well House seemed to read his mind. But as he opened his mouth to reply, he found himself lacking for what to say. Thanks for the reassurance? I never doubted it? You wanna come over and untwist my knickers yourself? Nothing appropriate was coming to mind. So he substituted actions for words and found House's hand and squeezed it, trying to convey all the words in his head in the gesture.

"Aw… Isn't that sweet?" House said, and Chase could hear the smirk in his voice.

He rolled his eyes and withdrew his hand. "Shut up."

oOo

Stacy was waiting in his office by the time he made it to the hospital. She was on her cell phone doing some important lawyer business when he pushed open the door, but at his entrance, she whirled around and paused in her conversation. House heard her excuse herself while he limped past her and let his backpack fall on his desk with a thump. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chase come into the conference room and set his bag down on a chair.

"What are you going to do?" Stacy asked him.

House shrugged off his coat. "Some delegation." He threw his coat over the back of his chair and then limped over to the door that led to the conference room and stuck his head in. "Hey! Someone get me my coffee. Black. And get to know Mark Warner—his file's on the bookshelf."

Cameron rose and walked over to the coffee pot, and Foreman stood up to go get the file. Satisfied, House let the door shut and turned back to Stacy.

"Do you have any ideas?" Stacy pressed, stepping closer as House went back to his desk to start unloading his pack.

"A few," House said loosely, leaning his cane against the side of the desk. "None I'm inclined to share at the moment. Don't want you suing me for emotional trauma if I'm wrong."

He knew that Stacy had rolled her eyes at that. "I'm not going to sue you."

"And I'm sure you'll convince your hubbie that he feels the same way about last night," House said leadingly.

"He's not pressing charges," Stacy said dryly. "But only because he loves me and does everything he's told."

"I want one of those," House said wistfully. He pulled out a stack of paperwork that he intended to have Cameron fill out later and set it on his desk. Finished, he reached for his cane and turned around to see Stacy staring at out at his fellows.

"She's pretty," Stacy said softly as he came to stand next to her.

"Cameron?"

It took House a minute to remember that he'd told her that he was sleeping with one of his fellows but had failed to specify that the fellow was male. Naturally, Stacy would assume that it was Cameron because the only other time he'd been so versatile with his sexuality had been in college, when she hadn't known him.

"She used to have a crush on me," House said, turning to watch Stacy. "But I think she watches Oprah every night, just to make herself cry."

Stacy turned to him in confusion. "But you said—"

"No, not Cameron. I'm with the blond one. In the paisley and stripes."

And with that, he left a gaping Stacy to figure out if he was joking or not and came into the conference room. Cameron handed him his coffee as he entered and then went back to her seat. Across from her, Foreman was flipping through Mark's file.

"There's nothing wrong with him," Foreman said, lowering the file.

"Is that his wife?" Cameron asked, looking past him and into his office concernedly.

"That's her," House said cheerfully, taking a sip of his coffee and limping over to the whiteboard. Setting his cup down on the table, he grabbed a marker.

Cameron glanced from House to Chase. "The woman you used to live with?"

"That's her Indian name—on her driver's license, it's Stacy," House said. "I assume you have a point?"

"It's just—" Cameron faltered. "Um. Isn't that kind of awkward?"

"It's fine," Chase said, before House could get in a properly insulting comment. "No one's going to kill anyone."

"Except our patient, if we waste time talking about our social lives," House snapped, uncapping the marker. "Differential! Let's go!"

- fin -


End file.
